Doubt Truth to be a Liar, but Never Doubt I Love
by EastStriker
Summary: Before he exited through the heavy doors, Merlin caught him with one final statement. "No matter what the situation, no matter what is at stake, and no matter what the consequences, I will never, so long as I live, ever use magic again." Arthur/Merlin.
1. Chapter 1: Exposed for What he is

"_Doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I Love."  
_-_Hamlet_, William Shakespeare

**Disclaimer & A/N:** First and foremost, I do not own anything pertaining to BBC's _Merlin_. This is purely a fanatic's work of fantasy that horribly abuses perfectly wonderful characters.

With that out of the way, I'd just like to mention that this is my first attempt at fanfiction (so have mercy on me haha), and I apologize for any mistakes, inaccuracies, or poor portrayals of _Merlin_ characters. I'm doing my best! This fanfiction will contain non con and somewhat explicit scenes, and the pairing at hand is Merlin and Arthur. I'm aware that this idea has probably been done before, but I just wanted to have my own take on it. Anyway, I hope you find this enjoyable, and thank you for reading!

_ps: the quote in the summary is an exert from chapter 3._

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**Chapter 1: Exposed for What he is**

Clean Arthur's room, polish his armor, groom the horses, sanitize the leech tank, and do the laundry—such was his list of duties for the day as ordered by both Arthur and Gaius. And now, 'clean the stables' was made addition to the list that he thought he'd masterfully vanquished in one day. Oh how accomplished he had felt in knowing that he'd conquered his duties in a single 24 hour day! But alas, it simply was not meant to be, because there he now stood among filth and hay, tidying away just as the clock struck twelve.

Merlin leaned up against the knobby wooden end of the broom and expelled a sigh. He had been presented with this task in the very last hours of the day under the pretense that the Prince would be going out for a ride in the early following morning, thus he expected to see shiny clean stables when he arose for his ride. This brings us now back to Merlin in the present, sweeping away at the little flakes of hay and stopping occasionally only to dab away small beads of sweat from his forehead.

"Clean my room, polish my armor, and wash my clothes—oh and, while you're doing all that work, clean the stables too, although I won't actually _tell_ you that until the day is nearly out," Merlin muttered the words riddled with irritation and sarcasm between tired breathes to himself. No, he didn't usually have the pleasure of mocking the Arthur, but considering that he was entirely alone in the dead of night, he thought it acceptable to take the liberty just this once. The horses, not yet slumbering, clopped around in their little cells and jingled their ropes as Merlin moved about them. He took no pleasure in their smell nor his duty. Somewhere in his mind, though, he attempted to patronize his suffering by coaxing himself into at least enjoying the splendid night sky, for it truly was a dashing scene.

He spared few precious minutes of work and sleep deprivation to crane his neck up and peer at the sky. A perfect circle decorated the blackness along with little specks of white. Merlin could just barely make out the view through the cracks between the aged roof of the stables, but the little trickle of light that spilled through gave him hope to finish his job before the sun replaced the moon. He ducked his head back down to continue, but before he could muster another sweep of the broom, a violent gust of wind tore through the stables and lashed at the old wooden planks. It wasn't unusual for the wind to abruptly pick up, not with the coming change in seasons, but this blast have been the fiercest one yet. Merlin sealed his azure eyes shut and brought up his arm to guard his face from lifted hay and debris. His scarlet neckerchief flapped energetically as the gust whisked passed him, though the stables, and back out into the night. Although he welcomed the chilly breeze as an inviting change of the seasons, he did not in the slightest welcome the following events that it produced.

Startled by the sudden impact of the wind, the horses rattled their restraints as they jerked and whinnied in surprise. A cacophony of jingling and metal clanging against metal promptly filled the night air. Merlin cringed at the onset of noise and groped out into the darkness before him in search of the horses, for only a single dimly lit torch served as his guidance through the blackness. He reached out for the reins and the noses of the beasts to sooth them, coo them into silence, and cease their noise lest he wake anyone around, or god forbid he wake Arthur (not that he could considering the distance between his chambers and the stables, but this just proved how paranoid Merlin had grown).

"Shh, it's ok, it's ok," he charmed, "It's just the wind." He patted their long noses and stroked their manes. Engrossed in trying to master them, the servant boy was unable to notice the minute changes that were taking place in the structure that hovered over him. Old rusted nails were being pushed to their extremes and crushed by the immense weight of the stable which they held together. They protested with low moaning, creaking and squeaking, until finally, a small nearly inaudible _crack_ sounded, and one nail gave way. Others followed its example as they were shaken by a combination of the wind, age, and the incessant movements of the panicked horses. A second _pop_ registered a second broken nail, and then a third, and then a forth. The last nail, battered by the responsibility to alone hold the roof after being abandoned of all other assistance, submitted to physics and snapped.

Merlin's head whipped up as the low moaning escalated into an exploding roar. Three out of four corners of the rectangular roof came tumbling down upon him and threatened to flatten both him and the unfortunate horses. A noiseless gasp escaped his lips as instinct and reflexes took command of his slender body. Reflexes prompted Merlin to drop to the ground, and he sank into the hay heavily onto his back. Instinct, on the other hand, forced only his right arm up and allowed words that were gibberish to everyone but a sorcerer to spill off his tongue in a hurry. His blue optics flashed a lustrous hazel as the magic took hold of the mayhem. The whinnying of the horses was silenced, the coldness of the night dissipated, and the shock in his heart ceased when magic interrupted the fall of the stables. The collapsing roof hung in mid air, frozen and defying the laws of physics, and then turned to mend itself. The slanted support beams were made to be parallel again, the roof was nested comfortably upon the beams, and the rusted nails gleamed new and sturdy with resilience. Silence ensued.

The horses, perhaps shocked into silence, were thankfully unharmed by the incident and remained in their places, only occasionally bumping against the sides of the stables and jingling the ropes. Heavy breathes were pushed from Merlin's chest as he laid idly amongst the hay. For several seconds he remained unmoved, still somewhat stunned by his near death experience that was, for once, not evoked by malicious magic or purposeful intent. Finally, he assured himself that it was merely an accident, one that he was lucky to have prevented with magic, and began to rise. He propped himself up onto his elbows and then onto the callused palms of his worn hands. At that moment, it suddenly struck him that he'd used magic completely out in the open. A cold sweat broke as the realization hit him. Merlin flew up onto his feet, kicking hay he'd just swept in all directions. He whirled around in a three-sixty in a daze, his head light from standing so suddenly and with adrenaline still fueling his energy. But his pulse was allowed to rest when he made a second realization, that it was the dead of night and surely no one was wondering at the hour. Relief replaced his panic, but only briefly, for then his panic was replaced by raw terror as from the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a blurry figure flee off in the distance. He saw the well built shape of a powerful man, clad in casual attire and fitted with a sword snug on his belt. The steps echoed off in long intervals which indicated long agile strides, and golden blond hair that shined even in the darkness fluttered, as Arthur Pendragon escaped the scene of the crime.

The young prince had not been out to enjoy the scenic night. No, of course not, he would very much rather have been comfy in his chambers in soft slumber, but this situation called for his immediate attention. He had ventured from the comfort of his bed and out into the gloomy streets in order to bestow upon his manservant yet another _simple_ task. The horses had to be groomed and their hoofs cleaned in preparation for the ride. Now, had this been a usual case, then Arthur would not have gone out of his way to order Merlin such a thing at such an hour because the duties should have been done based on common sense. But that trait was among the many things that Merlin lacked, and rather than wake in the morning to irritation and unprepared horses, he would make his morning more pleasurable by sacrificing his night, and remind Merlin of this task.

He'd made his way down to the stables as a lone man of the night. The event would most likely just evolve into a routine spat of words and usual obedience from Merlin in the end. He did not, however, expect to find that that would very much not be the case. Nothing was usual about the encounter—Arthur didn't even allow it to reach the stage of an encounter. As he neared the stables, an explosive blast of wind crashed through the walls of Camelot, inducing only a brief pause in Arthur, but a wild frenzy among the horses. He watched Merlin's pitiful little shape try to put the animals at ease, but then he witnessed the slow decay of the stables, and then their eventual collapse. Merlin's name was about to involuntarily slip off his tongue as he surged forward toward the stables fully prepared for a rescue to ensue, but be it good or bad, a rescue was not necessary. Arthur stared in a mixture of confusion, awe, and burning hate as he witnessed the roof linger in mid air and then move to repair itself of its wounds. It was magic. It wasn't ordinary magic either. It was magic evoked by Merlin, and because of that, it most definitely was not ordinary magic. It was magic preformed by his long trusted companion, and he would not stay to see anymore of it. At a loss for words or even a decent reaction, Arthur fled. He wheeled around on his heel and charged straight back for his chamber. He forgot his orders to Merlin, he forgot his morning ride, and he remembered how it felt to be utterly betrayed.

_He saw me, he saw me, he saw me!_ What else could Merlin do but flee? Nothing, so flee he did. He fled like he was running for his life, and in a sense he was. He abandoned the horses, the stables, and his cleaning duty. They were of little importance in this situation. His feet pounded against the ground as heavy as stones and his body was fueled with fresh surges of adrenaline. His labored breathe heightened again after only a brief moment of rest, and he forced his body to do his bidding despite its fatigue. Not once did he stop to look over his shoulder or to even think. He stopped running only when he came to his lodging among a sleeping Gaius, and even then he did not stop until he reached his room. The boy crashed down onto his bed as the effects of his trek caught up to his body, yet the fatigue tortured him a great deal less than his mind did. The only thoughts that clouded his mind were that of Arthur. Arthur had seen him. It wasn't meant to be like this. He hadn't revealed himself for a cause or to save Arthur's life. It wasn't dramatic, meaningful, or flashy. It was an accident—a single, simple, stupid accident. And now his life was over.

No—think Merlin, think. He smothered his face into his pillow and chocked off his breath just long enough for sense to find its way back into his mind. Still fully clothed, he allowed his pulse to decelerate and his aching limbs to rest, and then finally he dared to move himself again and flopped over onto his back. Perhaps it hadn't been Arthur who saw him; perhaps it was just a passing stranger. Things would be easier to take care of that way. Or perhaps whoever it was hadn't seen anything at all. They might have passed after he'd preformed his magic and saw only a servant boy cleaning the stables. Yes, yes that certainly was a possibility. After all, he'd heard no footsteps or any indication of other people until he laid eyes upon Arthu—no, the passing stranger. Moreover, _if _it was Arthur and had he really seen anything, then he would have confronted and ceased Merlin immediately. He would not be laying in his bed listening to his breathing and the silence. Rather, he would be in the dungeon, and alarm bells would be chiming and rousing every citizen from their sleep. Arthur, or the stranger, surely saw nothing, and Merlin assured himself of this.

He fooled his mind into being at ease and played his brain to nearly believing that his optimism was the truth. To seal the deal, he preformed his usual routine before he slept. He undressed and neatly set his clothes aside. He would have to rise early that day to prepare the horses for Arthur's ride. Warm covers waited for him as he slipped under their safety, turned onto his side, and slept not one wink until the sun had already crept up over the mountains.

But it was not the truth. The truth was that the witness was indeed Arthur Pendragon, and he had certainly seen everything that he needed to see. The prince plowed through the castle, the guards, and every closed door until he reached his chambers, to which he practically shattered the doors as he entered. Upon entering, the familiar aroma and comfort of his room served well to calm his mind and nerves. For a loving brief moment he also forgot what he just saw, that he'd seen Merlin of all people perform magic. But that memory had already been burned into his mind, and his ease quickly transformed back into a terrifying jumble of emotions. Arthur flew back into his rage after mere seconds of peace, ripped his sword from his side, and cast it across the length of his room. It splat against the hard surface some feet away and left an ugly trail to mark its path. He marched straight for his bed and threw himself down onto its surface. The soft covers did little to soften the blow of his realization. He sat, still in silence, with his elbows propped on his knees and his chin rested on his interlaced fingers.

Merlin used magic. Merlin—magic. The connection simply could not join. He could not use both terms in one sentence. They did not fit, did not belong, _could not_ belong. Merlin couldn't, and wouldn't betray him. _But he did._ Arthur bit down hard on his lower lip, but stopped before drawing blood. Be cool, be composed, he told himself. He was the crown Prince and future king of Camelot. If he could not work his mind around this simple ordeal, then he was not worthy of his title. _But the ordeal was far from simple._ Frozen in thought, Arthur made no movement besides the occasional twitch and fidget. His mind, however, was reeling with activity. One by one the connections began manifesting themselves. Things that didn't make sense began to make sense. All of Merlin's miraculous feats, his own miraculous survives, unexplained miracles, and so much more, could all be explained by Merlin's ability to use magic. And then Arthur made one final realization that was the most revolting of them all.

Merlin had saved his life, countless times no doubt, and he had done it with the use of magic. Merlin, a mere servant, a once trusted ally, and a weak little creature that walked on a plain that was even lower than the dirt below his feet, had saved him. At this point, he could no longer think of Merlin as the dear friend that he was. What a fool he had made of Arthur. All the times Merlin joisted that he could defeat Arthur, and that without his presence he would be doomed, Arthur had haughtily disregarded, but oh how right Merlin had been each and every time. How many times had Merlin had the opportunity to kill him? to crush him into submission? All this time it was Merlin who stood in power, and Arthur who stood beneath. He had depended on Merlin, needed him, required him—and the realization of his dependence was disgusting.

Arthur finally mustered the resolution to stand. The moon spilled light through his small window and indicated how late the hour was, and that it would be wise for him to sleep if he still wanted to proceed with his morning ride, but more likely than not, the ride would be removed from his schedule, for he had something more urgent to attend to. He had to reassert himself over Merlin. It was _Merlin_ who depended on Arthur, not Arthur who depended on him. It could never be the other way around—never. He didn't need Merlin; he would be fine without him. The fear of acknowledging his dependence failed to strike himself as being strange, for Arthur justified his need to prove himself with his title as Prince, and that a prince need only himself as support to succeed. He rejected the possibility of another reason behind his denial, but that reason buried itself deep within the crevasses of his mind, and would remain in hiding unless violently forced to reveal itself. In the mean time, Arthur undressed and nested himself comfortably in his bed. Uther did not need to know about Merlin. Merlin had betrayed only one person, and that was Arthur, so it was only right that Arthur was the one to administer punishment. Not only was he going to be punished, but he would be shown that in the end, it was ultimately Arthur who was independent and Merlin who was dependent.

Before rest sent him off into the land of slumber, Arthur resolved to throw Merlin back into submission, and it would happen without fail—he promised himself that.

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**A/N (again):** This chapter is just a little prologue of sorts since it doesn't contain much besides that one incident, but thank you for reading nonetheless!


	2. Chapter 2: Punished for What he is Not

**Chapter 2: Punished for What he is Not **

"Trouble sleeping last night, Merlin?" The elderly man peered up from his work only briefly to address a horrendous looking Merlin. Fatigue displayed itself prominently on his pale face. Dark shadows marked the hollow of his eyes and bloodshot whites (that were frankly more red than white) looked up at Gaius.

"Just a little," he remarked innocently, flashing his signature lopsided grin in attempt to mask his true unrest. The amount of sleep that he had earned could be counted on his hands and fingers (in minutes), yet he put up his finest front for his aged guardian. His mental self-persuasion was still convincing and in effect, and Merlin upheld his belief that Arthur had witnessed nothing the previous night. Nonetheless, the rational side of his mind had tucked away the possible truth that he feared into the far corner of his mind, and would not turn to face it unless it was absolutely unavoidable. But none of this he wished to bother Gaius with. His blue eyes observed the old man as he tended to his work. To one side a titanic book lay open and exposed with its old wrinkled and torn pages open to the physicians examination. To his other side was a small dish which contents appeared to be a blend of various leaves and herbs which truthfully, Merlin knew nothing about. The skin on his face had long since lost its youth and now sagged and flopped unattractively as he moved and heavy bags of flesh pooled under his eyes, but no matter his age, or perhaps because of it, Merlin could never hope to fool Gaius with his measly lies.

"You were out late working for Arthur, were you not? Did you not finish with your duties?" He questioned. Ouch—Gaius had hit close to the mark. So close that Merlin worried he had sniffed out his true concern. Quick, now was the time to plan a masterful escape!

"Ahh, no—I mean _yes_! Yes I did finish!" He stammered, throwing on his coat and scampering sheepishly across the room. "I just—I just have some last minute preparations, you know, for his ride, so I think I should be going now!" Eager to escape Gaius' all-seeing eye, the warlock made for the door and plowed head down toward the exit.

"Merlin, wait!" He did as commanded. This was it. Gaius was going to deduct him, dissect his mind and draw out that he had used magic in the open and might have exposed himself. He would first be furious, lecture him, and then fly into a panic and concern. Merlin stopped before the door and remained unturned to even face the court physician. He braced himself, prepared himself, and received…a foul ball?

"Merlin—" he started, "—you're not having nightmares…are you?" The old man finally tore his attention from his work. He gently set aside the dish and spoon and hobbled over to Merlin; concern glowed in his sunken eyes and impaled the warlock with the hard glance. Oh, thank _heavens._ Gaius thought that he had a second Morgana on his hands. Well, actually Merlin would much prefer being regularly sleep deprived like Morgana instead of having a possibly death sentence linger over his head because of his magic, but at least Gaius' concern was misplaced. An adorable smile of relief placed itself involuntarily across his face as he escaped conviction.

"No, not at all! It's just work, so you have absolutely _nothing_ to worry about, Gaius, I promise." He wheeled around to face Gaius, now confident that not even the great court physician would be able to deduce his hidden dilemma. And sure enough, he had passed. The corners of Gaius' lips lifted into a floppy smile when he was relieved of his worries over the boy whom he long considered a son.

"Well run along then; Arthur will have your head if you're late," he chuckled. Merlin did just that. He managed to utter a "bye, Gaius" as he raced out of the door leaving behind his worries and an untouched breakfast. He felt fresh, regenerated, _good_ despite his zero hours of sleep the previous night. Yes, it was going to be a good day! Merlin was utterly convinced that Arthur had seen nothing. They would meet and the Prince would chastise him for not cleaning the stables well enough and forgetting to groom the horse for his ride, and he would bow his head and grin sheepishly in response. Everything would be normal. _Everything had to be normal._

And so the warlock pranced down to the stables with a girly spring in his step. He skipped among the horses and for once, thoroughly enjoyed this task. He tossed a saddle over Arthur's favorite stallion and danced circles around the creature as he played with the buckles and the straps. All the while he bore the expression of a fool lost in the clouds. Arthur made sure he was told just that.

"_Mer_lin, I don't see what you're so happy about considering the horses aren't ready yet for my ride and the stables are _filthy_! Did you even clean them last night?" A familiar voice, haughty, rude, and condescending, directed itself at Merlin, but he invited the tone with nothing but open arms and glee. He was happy to see Arthur. He was _happy_ to see Arthur! Because everything was fine. He wasn't in shackles or in the dungeon or in a cage or tied to a stake. Arthur's usual insult only heightened the warlock's joy, causing him to flash an even larger grin toward the prince.

"Good morning to you too, Sire," he replied, sure to emphasize his politeness by addressing him as 'sire' instead of 'Arthur'. Merlin's blue eyes stared up to meet Arthur's just as blue optics. There was no hate in them, no confusion, and no hint that implied Arthur suspected even the slightest thing about Merlin's magic. At that moment, Merlin was still his little manservant boy who was useless in all aspects except in being a good friend. Arthur returned the happy stare with a somewhat puzzled glance in response to Merlin's unusual glee. He was clad in his knight's uniform, glistening chainmail and all, with his sword wrapped securely around his waist. He reached a glove hand up and ran his fingers through his curtain of fine blond hair, expelling an irritated sigh as he did so.

"If it's a good morning, then _why isn't my horse ready yet?_" he retorted, giving Merlin a playful knock to the shoulder. But Merlin only continued to beam like a fool. He was completely unsuspecting. He wasn't aware of the boiling fury that bubbled just beneath the visible surface of Arthur—but it was definitely there. What right had the manservant to look so happy, so utterly joyous, when he had sealed his fate the previous night? Why did he look so gleeful when he just _betrayed_ his master and_ obliterated_ the bond that they had forged? Yet Arthur held his exterior in perfect order, keeping his mess of emotions and urge to cut Merlin down on the spot in check. Merlin's joy in contrast with his own inner turmoil only served to fan the flames that were already raging inside, and at that moment, Arthur promised himself that his manservant would pay dearly.

His eyes locked onto every possibly aspect of the boy. He seemed to be looking at him for the first time, as if this boy before him was not Merlin, but a stranger. He was. He was a stranger—this was a Merlin who possessed magic; not the dumb little Merlin who had always scampered at Arthur's feet and trotted to keep pace with the Prince. As if for the first time, he saw how slim the boy was. He looked so brittle, so thin, so weak, like he could be broken into pieces as a simple twig would. No, fragile was a better term for it—fragile like a rare glass vase. Not his clothes, his raven black hair, or even his trademark red neckerchief could distract from his apparent frailty. He could envision himself now, as powerful as he was, with a firm grip on Merlin's little arm and snapping it in half, breaking it, shattering it. But he knew that could never happen. His servant could use magic to fight back or to flee. This thought sent a new wave of exasperation through Arthur, but was held in check by Merlin's sudden interruption of his thoughts.

"It is now!" the manservant declared with a little too much joy in his tone. He wheeled around to face Arthur and showed off his usual idiotic grin while extending out the reins of the stallion. The look nearly succeeded in disarming Arthur's rage. In his memory now, Merlin had become a very prominent part. When was the last time the boy hadn't been there at his beck and call? When was the last time he hadn't been there to give terrible advice, make outrageous accusations, or fail at cheering him up? No one could possibly fill the place of Merlin in his memory. His father had certainly not always been there for him, Guinevere had only been there from time to time, and Morgana was no longer even in the spectrum. It was pitiful that only now he realized how much space Merlin had occupied within him. He was a friend. _But no more_, Arthur reminded himself. He shook himself of the effects of Merlin's grin. That man he was looking at was an enemy and a traitor, and would be punished accordingly however _Arthur_ pleased. And so, with his heart hardened to stone, he continued to string along the unsuspecting Merlin. Merlin had fooled him long enough, so it was now time he returned the favor.

"_Finally!_" he huffed as he snatched the reins from Merlin. He then busied himself with a brief routine examination of his work, since it was a well known fact now that Merlin was not to be trusted to suit up a horse properly. As he did so, he caught the servant with his hands planted innocently behind his back and staring eagerly at his master, waiting for him to ride off into the romantic morning sun. "What are you waiting for, praise? Don't just stand there, go off now and do other things that you should be doing." He gave the order with an irritated wave of his hand which was an indication that Merlin was to scram.

"Yes, Sire!" The boy responded just as eagerly as he appeared and turned to take his leave, but was caught by one final order from Arthur.

"Oh and, before I'm back I want my room cleaned," he added before declaring Merlin's handiwork adequate and swung up onto the horse.

Merlin paused. Well, that was odd. Didn't he just clean his room yesterday? Unless Arthur threw a fit in there between last night and this morning, he saw little reason to clean the room again.

"But I just cleaned it yesterday!" he called after Arthur who was already trotting off and away.

"I don't care, _Mer_lin, just do it again!" Such was the only reply Merlin received before the distance between them rendered further communication impossible. The warlock watched the back of Arthur get smaller and smaller, until finally he disappeared. Oh well, at least Arthur was his usual self. Still powered by a high of glee, Merlin himself trotted off to commence with a day of duties.

With Arthur out on a ride and expected back only after a number of hours, his list of chores was blissfully short. He had only few errands to run for Gaius and then the additional task of putting Arthur's room in order, for whatever reason even though he'd cleaned it just the previous night. Nonetheless Merlin plowed through Gaius' needs, which mostly constituted delivering treatments and cleaning out old containers that once held rather questionable materials. Still in the hours of the morning, he found himself with ample time to tend to Arthur's room as he bounced up the steps of the castle and skipped down the corridors. The stone walls were never more inviting. This he continued to think until he arrived at the massive doors that guarded Arthur's chambers. He pulled open the heavy wooden panels, slipped in, and turned his back to assist them in closing since the doors were terribly notorious for slamming with the force of a strike of thunder. Merlin masterfully cushioned the slam as they ejected only a tiny _click_ as the door latched. But that was not all he heard.

"Hello, Merlin."

Startled, the warlock wheeled around in a panic and braced for a surprise attack. Who was it that was in Arthur's chambers? Only he, the manservant, was allowed access in the day, and aside from himself there was only…Arthur. Arthur Pendragon stood tall and gallant-looking as usual by his little rectangular window. He had stripped himself of his uniform and sported his usual casual attire. A pile of chainmail and robes lay scattered at one corner of the room. He hadn't bothered to grace Merlin with his glance yet and instead, remained with his back facing his manservant. His light eyes stared out onto the streets below, yet he looked at nothing in particular. He merely stood as if in deep thought, leaned up against the wall, arms crossed, and with a dreadfully serious expression lodged on his face.

"A-Arthur, what are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be out on your ride?" Questioned he, now growing somewhat apprehensive. Merlin dared to venture several steps further into Arthur's room. He took no notice of its clean state though. The bed was in order and the ground clear of debris and articles of clothing. The table hogged the center of the room and displayed the usual set of fresh fruit and impeccably shiny surface. Everything was just as he had left it the day before. So why had Arthur demanded he clean it again? Of course Arthur himself held the answer to that, for little did Merlin know, he had departed on his ride only to circle back around, enter the castle from behind, and slip into his chamber entirely unnoticed by neither guards nor any other personnel. While the rest of Camelot thought their Prince was enjoying a fresh morning ride, only he and Merlin would know what he was truly engaged in.

"I came back," he declared, finally turning to face Merlin and revealing to him his dismal expression. "I had something to take care of."

"Oh, well, I guess that's what you have me for, eh?" The manservant joked with a sheepish look and awkward scratch to the back of his head, but the joke bounced off Arthur's serious exterior and was rendered useless. Merlin eyed the prince as he slowly departed from his idle position by the window. He paced over to the long dining table that was far too large for one person, yet only he alone dined on it regularly. "Is everything alright, Sire?" Merlin ventured to ask, raising a worried eyebrow at Arthur's resilient silence. He received no response, and thus tried again. "Arthur? Are you ok?" he asked again, this time more personally, as a friend instead of as a servant. Still no response. "Arthu—"

"_How can you continue to speak to me like that?_" A clap of thunder that could rival the slam of his chamber doors echoed through the room as Arthur smashed his fist down upon the dining table. Cold accusing eyes glared up at Merlin and awaited at least a semi-decent answer, but no matter what exited his mouth Arthur knew that there was no excuse or explanation that could prompt his forgiveness.

"Like what? Arthur I'm just—"

"Like you're still my _friend_ god dammit!" Arthur spat. Rage tainted every syllable that he expelled yet he fought to regain his control. He'd intended to solve this civilly, to solve this as a prince and not an impulsive peasant, but once the words had escaped his lips his anger wanted to spill out with them. In attempt to control his turmoil, Arthur shrank back into a moment of silence. He hung his head as he set both his palms onto the smooth surface of the table. Merlin had indeed cleaned his room the night before, and the squeaky clean state of the table could vouch for that.

"Please, Arthur, I don't understand. Just what are yo—" The flood gates broke.

"Dammit all Merlin I _know you're a sorcerer_!" Inexpressible fury exploded from every pore in Arthur's body. He had to break something, snap something, _obliterate_ something to keep himself from lunging at Merlin right that second and obliterating the boy himself. With only the decorations that cluttered the dining table within reach, Arthur claimed the silver platter of fruit within his monstrously tight grip and launched it in his blind fit of rage. The plate and the various fruit were cast airborne and in all directions. Bruised fruit soon pelted the ground and an ear splitting clang and clatter indicated that the platter had also landed some ways away.

All of the glee and bottomless pit of joy which Merlin had indulged in just hours before drained away, leaving only a baron landscape of fear, panic, and absolute horror. His pale complexion whitened even more as if Arthur had managed to squeeze out every drop of blood from his vessel with just those words, and really, he had. Arthur's hard glare was screaming accusingly into Merlin's ears, and he could hear every accusation, false or true, and every hate-filled syllable. Denial could no longer contain the truth which it had barred. Arthur had been there last night. Arthur had seen him use magic. He opened his mouth to retaliate in defense, but found it impossible to form words or even coherent sounds. He could not think, could not move, could not defend himself against this truth. But Arthur wanted a response. Not one more word had been spoken since his accusation, but his powerful glare was enough to enthrall the servant. The mere force of his eyes locked Merlin in a mental cage, keeping him from forming thoughts and depriving him of a free will. Merlin forced himself to tear his gaze away.

Ok, think Merlin, think. Freed from Arthur's entrancing glare, his brain finally continued with its usual functions of sustaining life. Somewhere in the furthest regions of his mind, Merlin had always known that this day would arrive, whether violently or peacefully, happily or mournfully. But not quite like how it was happening at this moment, though. He had run similar scenarios through his mind, over and over again, in trying to devise an escape route, an excuse, and even a script of lines that he could use to counter accusations against his magic. If there was ever a time, now was one of them to draw upon his months of mental training and preparation. Yet as he tried to summon the rehearsed lines to his mouth, he found that he remembered nothing. He could recall no excuses or pleas that he had memorized. Arthur had thoroughly forced his mind into a stand still, and Merlin could only find it in himself to muster a pitifully weak retaliation.

"_Me_? A _sorcerer_? Please, Arthur, you and I _both_ know that I'm too stupid for that," he stammered, raising his hands in a feigned and comical surrendering pose. But the pose wasn't feigned. He shook down to the bone and his fingertips wobbled as if chilled. His voice, which he had intended to control and hold at a convincingly steady tone, betrayed him and wobbled just as much as the rest of his body did. His hopes for his unconvincing lie were not high, and Arthur only crushed them further.

He slowly removed his hands from the table and retreated one step, perhaps to avoid wrecking other items that decorated its surface. But he was in control now. The sacrifice of the fruit platter had not been in vein, for it allowed some amount of control to return to Arthur. He mentally regulated everything from his breathing to his blinking, thus when he opened his mouth to speak this time, his voice was level, firm, and condemning. It was certain now that he had made up his mind, and would not be swayed no matter what Merlin said.

"Don't lie to me. I saw you last night," he started, now beginning to calmly slip down the side of the table, yet he never allowed his eyes to leave Merlin even once no matter how he repositioned himself. But he could only hold his stern exterior for so long. The inner turmoil that boiled within him could not be repressed even by the most fortified of men, and although Arthur had held out for several minutes, he could no longer as his emotions regained control of his body. He now looked defeated, tired, sad even, as he made his way to his bed. "I saw the stables, the collapse, the magic, the repairing—Merlin, I saw _everything."_ And that was it. He did it. He said it. It was done. His mournful look stemmed from this sentence, the sentence that ultimately declared that Merlin had been caught. He had recited the words inside his mind time and time again, but in hearing them flow off his lips aloud, they become reality, and at that moment he knew for real that his friend as a sorcerer, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Arthur now found himself sitting on the comfort of his bed. Somewhere along the way his rage had transformed to sorrow. It was like the stages of grief. First came the anger, then the sadness, and acceptance came along somewhere down the path, but he knew that it would be impossible to achieve here in Camelot. He sat hunched as he had the previous night with is elbows propped on his knees, only this time he buried his face within the rough palms of his hands. The world around him needed to disappear, and the momentary blackness gave him some relief, but he was ultimately still alive, and so was the rest of the world. He brought one hand up to press his aching temples. Now that his anger had subsided, there was only the hangover of a raging headache left.

Perhaps some of this realization had spread to Merlin, because he too felt the force of the conviction. Despite all the scenarios that he had played out and all his methods of escape, he was thoroughly unprepared for this reality. The truth that he had restrained for so long escaped all his inner protections and all his fail-safes, and came spilling out into the open.

"I'm sorry," was all he could muster. Head bowed, Merlin allowed the truth to soak into Arthur. In this moment of silence, he gave himself the liberty of contemplating over his final moments. What would Arthur do to him? Report him to Uther to be hanged, burned, or decapitated? kill him himself? forgive him and let him go? Oh how he would like to have believed in the last option, but he knew that it was a fantasy that would never be realized. He was apologetic to Gaius and to his mother, who had both tried so dearly to keep him safe, yet in the end all their efforts were in vein as he became his own undoing. As the silence dragged on, Merlin finally dared to peek up from his black strands at the still silent Arthur.

He only saw Arthur, seated at the edge of his bed with his head hung not in shame like Merlin but in fatigue. But what he did not see was the new born anger within him. Was that _all_ Merlin had to say? Years of being fooled and he thought a pathetic apology would suffice? Arthur's brow wrinkled as a fresh wave of anger swept through his body, prompting him to spring to his feet and whip his head in Merlin's direction.

"'_I'm sorry_' is _all_ you have to say for yourself?" He smashed his fist against the nearest solid surface, which was his bed post. "You have betrayed Camelot—you have betrayed _me_! You're a bloody traitor who's like every other wicked sorcerer who has been killed, and for that I _promise_ I shall never allow this to pass!" He spat out each word through tightly gritted teeth. His hand burned from all the recent smashing and flipping but it compared little to the pounding throb in his chest. This time, the assaults did not simply go through Merlin. The precious moments of silence he had had allowed him to gather few scraps of thoughts and coherent arguments, but what left his mouth was mostly instinct.

"Arthur I can swear to you that I'm not like them. I've only ever used magic for good—for you—and that's all I tend to ever use it fo—"

"I never _asked_ you to use magic for me! I never _wanted_ you to use magic for me!"

"I know but please, believe me that it is your destiny to become the greatest king that Camelot will ever know and it is mine to protect you until th-"

"_I don't need you to protect me!_" Merlin set off the landmine.

This was what he did not want to hear the most, that Merlin had protected him. The boy had become frantic now. His gestures livened compared to his previous stillness in pitiful desperation, but Arthur would not hear it and his forever thinning patience would not even allow him to hear Merlin through. Merlin would come to regret his words. The prince did not need protecting.

At that moment he finally concluded what kind of punishment would be adequate. He had tossed and turned through the night and still contemplated the matter in the early morning in attempt to summon a consequence that would not only punish Merlin, but also reassert himself as Prince over his manservant. The answer came to him. Oddly calm, Arthur reseated himself at the side of the bed. Chin balanced on his gloved hands, in a monotone voice, he ordered, "Lock the door, Merlin." He did so. The _click_ and latching of the door sealed his fate. Unmoved, Arthur raised his voice for a second command, which was a simple and seemingly unthreatening, "Come here."

Hesitant but in no position to oppose him, Merlin did as he as told. He prolonged his walk across the room as long as was physically possible as he practically tip toed to Arthur. Every step brought a fresh wave of fear and a new thought as to how the Prince was going to end his life. Nonetheless he was obedient and arrived at the bed side, standing with two arms lengths distance between the two. He still hung his head, fearful of looking up to meet Arthur's enthralling eyes. He had every reason to fear the Princes gaze, because it was truly fearsome. His eyes locked onto Merlin with such ferocity that he could practically feel his stare. He could feel Arthur silently evaluating his every flaw and every physical failing, and he stood as if he were an open book for his total and complete examination. Little did he know how fitting that metaphor would be.

Up to that point, Merlin had envisioned various horrifying endings. He saw himself hanged, drowned, burned alive, decapitated, drawn and quartered—oh the list went on. He thought he had thoroughly exhausted all the possible things that could be done to him to make him suffer so that nothing would come to him as a surprise, but he never, ever, considered what Arthur would have him do.

"Strip."

"What?"

"I said, '_strip'_."

It he hadn't been shaking before, then now he was really shaking. This wasn't in the script—this wasn't even anywhere within Merlin's nightmares. Of all the terrible things he had lost sleep over, this was not one of them. He was left in the dark, and what awaited him was a complete mystery. The not knowing further heightened his growing terror.

"Don't make me repeat myself again, _Merlin_." He didn't.

A meek nod that wobbled as his body quaked was the only response that he could muster, and he did as he was ordered. He first parted with his neckerchief and just as with his walk across Arthur's chamber, took his dear sweet time first unknotting it and then neatly folding it into a square before finally placing it upon a chair that neared the bedside. He then slipped off his coat and repeated, folding it into a nice pile and then setting it atop the neckerchief.

"Hurry up," Arthur ordered. Merlin swallowed hard at this command as if a stone had been forced down his throat. He had shed off articles of clothing that he could go without, but going further meant the ultimate exposure. Further more, Arthur's glare that could rival a griffin seemed to restrain him ever more by the second. He felt the ability to move grow in difficulty, as if each second that Arthur stared landed a set of weights onto Merlin's limbs. But despite that, his order was an order, and Merlin had long since cast away his pride for the sake of being the manservant of the Prince of Camelot. Giving another weak trembling nod, he peeled off his raggedy blue shirt but this time, simply discarded it on the chair without folding it. He had done so to 'hurry up' just as he had been ordered to, but also because his uncontrollable shaking had sucked all the bodily control out of his limbs. He could no longer bring himself to even perform the simple motions of folding an article of clothing. The last to go were the garments that guarded his lower half. His worn boots found their place at the foot of the chair, which soon came to support a jumbled mess of his attire all the way from his shirt to his trousers.

This left Merlin completely bare. His raging imagination could not even concoct an ending to this story. Was Arthur aiming for some kind of humiliation? Or perhaps torturing him would be easier done without clothing to obscure the abuse? His mind raced with panic and fear, but at least the internal conflict obscured the chill of cold air against his porcelain white exterior. He had worse to worry about than the cold.

Admittedly, Arthur had never seen Merlin in this state before—void of attire and so pitiful looking. But there was nothing to enjoy looking at. He was just as frail and skinny as he appeared even with rags on but even more so with rags off. The whiteness of his sunlight deprived flesh heavily contrasted the stark blackness of his hair. It was almost sickly looking, like a child with a terminal disease. Yet despite his lack of attraction, he found himself unable to restrain from exploring every visible aspect of his manservant with his sharp eyes. He absorbed every ridge, every flaw, every bony surface and curve, or lack there of considering his sharp and very angular figure. Merlin was certainly not a woman, nor did he even come close to having the shape of one. He suffered long under Arthur's close scrutiny, for neither said one word for a seemingly uncountable number of minutes. Not until he was shivering both from fright and the cold did Arthur move to cast another order.

"Come closer." Merlin obeyed. "Now get down on your knees." This he did not obey. Master and servant were separated by less than an arms length of distance. He was frighteningly close to Arthur, closer than he would usually allow on an ordinary basis, and had he knelt down he would be caught very awkwardly in the boundaries of his legs. But this was not an ordinary basis, but before that thought could be processed in his mind, Arthur's voice hissed into his ears as if he were casting a death sentence. "On your knees, _Merlin_," he repeated, his patience rapidly deteriorating.

Merlin's terror reached its all time high as he bent to this command, literally. He sank to his knees, eyes pointed toward the ground determined not to look back up into Arthur's furious gaze from his pathetic position. But that too was impossible. A rustling of clothing from above distracted him from his determination as the urge to observe what was going to befall him pressured him to look up at Arthur. What was going to happen finally struck him.

The same clarity reached Arthur as well. This was it. In place of execution, this was how he was going to torment Merlin, and this was how he was going to ultimately place himself as superior to the manservant, magic or no magic. He had undone his trousers and lowered them just enough to leave his most sensitive part exposed, although not nearly quite as exposed as Merlin literally was. To men he could be considered formidable. To women he could be considered desirable. To Merlin he was about to do something unimaginable.

"Suck it," he commanded. Merlin didn't know whether to be disgusted, terrified, or simple aghast. In fact, his initial terror had transformed into something entirely different. It was an indescribably monstrous beast like a hydra which donned the heads of fear, agony, confusion, and a mess of other undesirable emotions that swelled in his chest. Before him was Arthur Pendragon, crown Prince to Camelot, an arrogant bastard, but he was his friend. No, he couldn't be serious. This was just a ploy, a trick to run Merlin into a mental corner and scare the daylight out of him before knocking him around a bit physically after the psychological damage was inflicted. Any second now he would draw back and plant a punch across his face or run a sword through his gut. Anything, but this. Anything but this. But fate would not have it his way.

What remained of Arthur's patience evaporated as he violently grabbed a fist full of black hair atop Merlin's head. He yanked his head up skyward so their blue eyes met; Arthur's were full of fury, Merlin's were full of terror. His pitiful state and that kicked-puppy look in his eyes almost disarmed him again. He was a sorcerer, but oh he was his _friend!_ Was…he_ was_ his friend. Arthur sucked in a short breath as he realized what was happening. Merlin had burrowed deep into Arthur's heart, deeper than anyone else had ever reached, and that Arthur simply would not accept. To know that another living being had such a hold over his heart terrified him. His moment of pity quickly morphed back into stern rage. He had to do this, both for himself and for Merlin. Once he was through, Merlin would know who was truly in charge, and so would he himself.

"What did I tell you about repeating myself?" He tightened his grip on Merlin's black strands. "Sorcerer's require incantations to perform magic, no? Then you will be completely harmless if you can't speak." His mouth would be busy with other things. For Merlin there was no escape, and so in shameful, total defeat, he bowed down to Arthur's order. He flushed him mind of thought, leaned in, and took Arthur between his lips.

An unfamiliar sensation and musky taste blasted his senses. It was surreal, it was fiction, it was not reality. The smell, the taste, the texture—everything was as alien as what Arthur could possibly be thinking at the moment. He squeezed his eyes shut to blotch out all light and proof that he was wide awake and not having a horrifying nightmare, but they few open again in shock when Arthur, still with his firm grip on Merlin's hair, drew him in closer and forced his member even deeper in one swift motion. He had taken him from tip to base, but not without consequence. Merlin fought viciously against his gag reflex as Arthur penetrated a region of his body that wasn't meant to be treated as it was. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes from the burning discomfort, but only a weak whine ran through his throat. This, however, must have been welcomed by Arthur, who let out the first signal of enjoyment.

He exhaled a long deep breath as he allowed himself to be fully submersed in the sweet sensation. Merlin lacked his practical uses, but _this_ was something that he could be good at without putting in any effort. For thinking this, a distinct emotion of self-disgust began to pool within his chest, but he pushed it aside with the tingling pleasure that he acquired from Merlin's tight mouth. He could feel every twitch from the inside, every tiny movement of his tongue pressed against his length, every breath Merlin struggled to take, and all of it served to heighten Arthur's pleasure. A cool shutter ran down his spine at the sudden onset of pleasure and allowed a faint purr to run up his throat. He tilted his head back to avert his eyes from Merlin since the boys ruined appearance would certainly make the event sour. For several seconds he remained idle, only soaking in the comfort and new found treasure, but a man's desire is a beast that cannot be detained for long.

There was no hesitation as he guided Merlin's head into an even rocking motion, first pulling out to the tip and then shrinking back in to the base. The friction of the hot walls of his mouth against Arthur's pulsing member struck a sweet note, but not so sweet a note that Merlin would take any notice. He could not deny how _blissful_ the feeling was. It was arousing, infatuating, and near addicting. For every second that he wasn't buried deep in Merlin's throat, the boy sucked in as much breath as possible. Being utterly unaccustomed to such an action, he was pathetically unable to even breathe properly. But Arthur paid no attention to this what so ever and was busy immersing himself in the glorious sensation. And immerse himself shamelessly he did.

"Keep going," he ordered between steadily quickening breathes. He released his hold on Merlin's now disorderly hair and commanded that the boy himself now take the initiative. He was, after all, the servant, and the servant's job was to please the master. Just like Arthur had said, Merlin was unable to utter a response of any kind. Not even a whine this time. The burning pain and his reflex to vomit had not yet subsided, but there was little he could do besides obey, and he obeyed. He groped with his hands until he found that edge of the crimson covers to Arthur's bed and snatched the article in his grip. He clung onto it for dear life. With his pride all but obliterated, he went down on Arthur with his mouth tightly wrapped around the hot organ. He bobbed his head at as even a pace as he could manage in his broken state, which was quite uneven, but once again Arthur took little notice to the minor imperfection and instead, laid back and enjoyed himself, and it was _very_ enjoyable. His breath had quickened as he came near submitting to the pleasure, but soon he grew dissatisfied with Merlin's painfully slow pace. He ached like any man for a quick and clean release, which couldn't possibly be brought on by the current speed, so he buried his gloved hand into Merlin's mess of hair again and forcefully picked up the pace. Now that was better, for him, but not for Merlin.

The friction exploded with the new speed and an even wetter sensation. Arthur allowed a single gasp to escape his lips when he pulled Merlin in, locked him in place, and reached the full height of his tantalizing pleasure. Another shutter ran down his spine as he rode out the final bursts of pleasure. That had been far more rewarding than he had originally thought. He struggled to control his panting as if he had just completed a long run, but oh he had reached the finish line and gone beyond. He couldn't help but sneer as he finished, knowing that he had just preformed the ultimate act of control over another man. Again, somewhere deep within his chest, a boiling pit of self-disgust grew because of this, but he again evaded the feeling and instead turned his attention back to Merlin.

Crumpled on the ground before him was the manservant. His knees were red and aching from being forced against the hard stone of the chamber floor. Salty tears streamed in lines down his now even paler face and his quaking had yet to cease. His jaw, having been forced open for so long, was sour and stiff and the joints begged for Arthur's retreat. The only act of mercy the prince showed all day came when he did just that. He pulled out of Merlin's mouth just as abruptly as he had entered him. This, although being slightly more comfortable for Merlin, was still highly un-pleasurable as he flew into a fit of coughing and chocking. The sticky whiteness of Arthur's ejaculate had thoroughly invaded his throat and reached the deepest region of his mouth. There was little choice was to swallow it, and he did, only rejecting drops that he had painfully coughed up. He fell onto his palms and sank to all fours as he cleared his air ways by swallowing the material. His head spun due to oxygen deprivation and his eyes burned with tears, but Arthur was not through yet, not even after seeing Merlin in this ruined condition. There was still more to be done. Merlin had to be taught a lesson.

Without a word, Arthur grabbed the still wheezing Merlin by his bony forehead and threw him up onto the bed. He tumbled over onto his side trying to right himself and gain a coherent understanding of what was happening. In a flurry, Arthur rid himself of his boots and dropped his trousers further before also taking to the soft cushions of his bed. Before Merlin could utter a word, the prince took him by the unattractive angular hips and flipped him so his front was pressed down and his back entirely exposed.

Enough oxygen had made it to Merlin's brain for him to finally grasp what was going to occur. No, it was impossible. He wasn't a woman, what Arthur was about to do was simply _impossible_. His mind had been blank during the earlier abuse but terror now filled the empty space. He grabbed at the sheets, the covers, the pillows and anything that he could get a firm grip on as if he could claw his way to safety, but that too was impossible. He was stark naked but sweating like he was baking in the sun. No. No no no no no. Merlin broke his silence in a desperate terrified plea.

"A-Arthur, _please_ stop this!" Arthur, peeling off his gloves, slammed one hand down on Merlin's shoulder thus shoving his torso into the covers. With his other, he firmly gripped his hip and forced them higher. "God no Arthur _please I'm begging you_!" Begging did him nothing as the Prince set himself in a more comfortable position with Merlin bent like a dog before him and himself on his knees to be level with him. Merlin's pleas turned into cries as panic rendered his voice like that of a terrified child's. He may not have been a child, but he was very, very terrified. His final plea was more of a sob, but did just as little as his previous ones.

"_Arthu—_" He was forced to cut off his cry as a true sob came up his throat. Discomfort that bordered on agony set fire to his lower half as Arthur, with no preparation whatsoever, sank two fingers from tip to knuckle into Merlin. This wasn't happening. _This wasn't happening_. He let out another shaking cry as Arthur worked his fingers as if he was in a woman, but he most certainly was not in one. His lack of knowledge brought on only more pain to Merlin, who had tightly shut his eyes and reduced to biting down on the sheets. Muffled whimpers sounded between wasted breaths, and then suddenly he was freed from it. He felt the intrusion suddenly disappear as Arthur yanked out his fingers. Merlin's brief moment of relief was quickly swept away, though, as something even more painful replaced them.

He felt stiffness rub up against his rear and knew only too well what it was now, and the thought threw Merlin into another wild panic. He thrashed in the bed blindly, completely unable to muster any thoughts or working actions, until finally Arthur grew tired of his unruly pet and turned to more corporal punishment.

"_Shut up and stop moving_!" A fresh burning sensation was born when Arthur whipped Merlin upside the head. This silenced his whines and ended his flailing. The slap had struck a great potion of his ear and utter cheek, mostly missing the mass of his face due to his awkward position half buried into sheets. But it had done its damage. But only more damage would be done as Arthur returned to where he had been interrupted and in a single motion, plunged into Merlin from behind.

The pain was indescribable. Merlin had been thrown against walls by magic, poisoned, and subjected to various other physical abuses, but this kind of pain thwarted them all. An inferno of agony scorched from the unwarranted penetration, and this time Merlin could not even hope to muffle the ensuing cry. He hollered in anguish until his throat was dry and his voice was reduced to a low mournful whine. A floodgate of tears broke and streamed from his eyes. Without mercy, Arthur buried himself deep within and then retreated, and repeated this processed rapidly like a wild beast. The warmth of Merlin's mouth had been wondrous, but the sensation of being sucked in by the walls of his entrance was _incomparable_. How it sucked him in, how it fit so tightly and so perfectly, and how it suited his lustrous needs just right blinded Arthur to all else, and especially to the suffering Merlin beneath him. But Merlin was suffering in more ways than one.

Above the physical agony of feeling Arthur ripping him, stretching him, and piercing him in ways that were not meant to be, an even more painful hurt ached in his chest. He ignored the blood that he felt trickling down his leg to stain the sheets. He ignored Arthur's animalistic pumping. He ignored the aching in every inch of his body. He felt only the pain that stabbed at his heart. To have Arthur of all people to do this to him was the worst of all punishments. Arthur had been right with his selection, for Merlin would have preferred death over this. Arthur had been his dearest companion, and now he was his violator. In his moment of blurry eyed pain and faintness of consciousness, Merlin finally came to realize his true motivation behind hiding his magic. Of course he had wanted to escape death, but above the value of his own life, he had feared the most how Arthur would react if he ever found out. It was indeed pitiful that he was only just realizing this under such gruesome circumstances. He had feared rejection from Arthur all along. He had feared losing someone whom he had grown so attached to, someone who he had literally given his life to. For those reasons he hid his magic. A single tear, not of pain but of sorrow, slid down his cheek and splashed onto the stained sheets below him.

With a grunt and a quick gasp in satisfaction, Arthur released a second time, this time deep within another invaded and abused region of Merlin's body. The events the followed passed in a blur. Merlin could recall laying upon the bed, stiff, broken, and a shattered man. He had watched Arthur's broad back as he slipped back on his shoes and smoothed out his wrinkled clothing. He had ordered something like, "Make sure to clean this all up before you leave." Those were the first words that he had spoken to him after the ravishing attack and the last he heard before Arthur departed. Without another word or even a glance in Merlin's direction, he silently crept across the room, exited, and locked the door behind him to leave only a pitiful little Merlin scattered atop the bed.

After that, Merlin had remained unmoving for god knows how long. The comfort and the softness of the prince's bed had done little to ease his pain, but now Merlin allowed himself to drift into its comforting surface. He had never felt so good, or so bad, in his life ever. Perhaps as a sort of mental defense, he locked out the happenings that had just occurred. He simply rose as if he had awakened in his own bed after a long nights slumber and made way to his pile of clothing. Using an old rag he wiped himself down as cleanly as he could before casually slipping back into his discarded attire. The morning theme followed the mentally ruined Merlin as he cast an eye down toward the bed. What a mess. Sweat and other unnamable bodily fluids were splattered on the royal surface and gathering a pail and a fresh rag, Merlin proceeded to dab it down.

He smeared away at the stains until only a clean newly washed patch was left. He then went onto making the bed, since the sheets and covers had been badly throw around into a wrinkled mess. Still damp from the wash, he carefully folded the fabric to allow it to better dry, but also so that it still appeared to be in order. He achieved a fine balance if he did say so himself. Following the bed he turned his attention to the bruised fruit that littered the ground. Some had rolled unbelievably far and forced Merlin onto his hands and knees to reach into little corners and beneath furniture to retrieve it all along with the silver platter, which now held a bundle of no longer edible fruit. He set the tray down on the dining table anyway and made a mental note to ask Guinevere to replace the fruit when she had the chance. With that, the room was perfectly presentable again. Well, it looked like Arthur's room had needed that second cleaning after all.

Satisfied with himself, Merlin left through the massive double doors and let them thunder shut behind him. Running back through his mental list of chores, he was surprised to find that he had just completed the last one. Oh, that's right, Arthur had been out on a ride so there was little for him to do with his master gone. Well, this was a break that was certainly well deserved, he thought to himself as he eagerly left the maze of corridors. What would he do with the rest of his day? He so hardly ever got free time that having it now rendered him confused. With nothing yet in mind he found himself wondering back toward Gaius' room. The old door squealed on its hinges as it opened, but revealed the Gaius himself was not present. Probably out on a house call or doing some of Uther's bidding, Merlin reasoned. He passed the various glass vials and towering stacks of books before he reached the little doorway to his own chamber. It was far smaller and certainly less lavish than Arthur's, but it was comforting at least.

Upon entering the room, he stripped off his jacket, flopped down onto the bed, and then could fool himself no longer. It hadn't been a nightmare. It had happened. Arthur had learned of his magic and abused him for it, and Merlin had indeed paid dearly. Rolling onto his side, Merlin curled into a defensive ball, and then wept himself into a deep sleep that he wished would never end.

* * *

**A/N:** Whew, that was considerably longer than the first chapter, but I hope you liked it! Thank you for reading, and I would really appreciate reviews to let me know how I'm doing so far!


	3. Chapter 3: Cross my Heart

**Chapter 3: Cross my Heart **

The Prince was a busy man. He didn't have time for what Merlin was probably doing (which was weeping), so he had forcefully closed his mind to the events that had just occurred and carried on with his usual days duties. But this he had not done for the reason that he claimed. Somewhere in the black pit of his heart was an ever growing ocean of self-loathing, and in time it would grow until it could force its way to the surface and swallow Arthur in grief. Because of this eminent future, he had made every possible effort to evade the memories of Merlin's abuse. He had been far from successful, though, for if he actually had the capability to deny the truth, then he wouldn't be as he was now, sending a barrage of wild blows at a stuffed straw training dummy.

Battered, beaten, and near its breaking point was a lump of wood that was suited with a helmet and metallic armor, all of which were stuffed with tightly bound handfuls of straw to create the basic shape of a human being. This was Arthur's opponent for the afternoon. He lunged at it, tore at it, stabbed at it, and swung at it. He beat the fictional enemy until horrid gashes formed on the armor and straw guts were beginning to scatter. Onlookers simply saw a well disciplined Prince who was training for the dangers ahead, but that couldn't be further from the truth. There was no mind up in Arthur's head as he wielded the sword. He noticed not his rapidly tiring body or his dripping sweat, but focused only on the enemy before him; _himself._ Reality had been slow to catch up to him, but in the end it had.

Immediately following his _ordeal_ with Merlin, Arthur had been stuffed with self satisfaction that was shadowed only by slightly noticeable regret, but ultimately it had been satisfaction that he radiated. It was his win. He had ridden his high of victory throughout the rest of the morning and strutted through Camelot with so much confidence that it was blinding. This was partially possible because the event had admittedly been enjoyable (for him, at least), but also because reality had yet to catch up with him. Arthur proceeded in the morning to mask his fake ride. He had once again rode a wide circle around upon his stallion in order to reenter the castle from the front, thus perfectly feigning his return from a refreshing 'morning ride'. He'd been welcomed back as if he had been gone for weeks, when in reality had had only 'departed' and 'returned' within hours. Speaking of reality, it was around this time that it finally caught up to him.

After the greetings, the care of his horse, and the reporting back to his father, Arthur was finally left to his own devices. But the moment his mind was not preoccupied with other faint details, Merlin's agonized cries sounded in his ears like the warning bells. The gruesome memories flooded from their restraints and smothered Arthur with their horrifying details. All the aspects that he had missed during the actual happening suddenly crashed upon him in crystal clearness. He heard the cries, felt the tightness, and saw his manservant withering in agony beneath him. He had done it. He had really, truly done it. His confidence and satisfaction abandoned him and left only the truth for him to see. Merlin possessed magic, and for that Arthur had violated him. The wound inflicted by the idea that Merlin was a sorcerer was still sore and open, and now a new wound was split within and salt was smothered on both. He was angry again—angry at what he did, angry at what Merlin did, angry at the _goddamn world_ for being so twisted as to allow this to happen.

Anger that had subsided returned with twice the force. Merlin was a sorcerer, and despite being the Prince, there was absolutely nothing in the world that he could do to change that. What had he tried to do, _beat_ the magic out of Merlin? But it was the only thing that he could think of doing. He could only think of controlling Merlin, showing him his true place in this wretched world, and bind him down until he himself hated the magic that was doing this to him. Oh but it was so _frustrating!_ _Why_ couldn't he do anything? Since when was he so useless? With one command he could send an army to slaughter a foreign land. With one wave of his hand he could order a man's death. With one _look_ he could make his enemies fear him. But he could not change what Merlin was. The only other option was death. He had broken two laws already. He had taken another human being without their consent, and he had failed to report someone affiliated with magic to the King. Stricken with frustration, rage, and confusion, Arthur had turned to the only thing that he was good at, and that was combat.

This brings us to where he was now, still beating away blindly at the straw dummy. A final well planted slash rid the figure of its head and the straw-stuffed helmet hit the mud and grass with a soft _thud._ Spectators around him applauded his skill and victory over the inanimate object, but he heard nothing but Merlin begging for mercy that he did not receive.

Merlin had slept away a fair portion of his afternoon as compensation for the sleep that he had lost previously. Thankfully, Gaius had failed to find anything strange about his slumbering in the middle of the day since he had observed first hand how sleep deprived the boy had been earlier that morning. He had even let him sleep, for Arthur did not call for him the rest of the day, and Gaius had been in no need of clumsy assistance. When he awakened, he had been determined to make the events of the morning nothing more then a faint blurry memory that would never be looked back at again. For various reasons, that was not possible.

The first incident would not be the only one. Merlin had initially found himself fretting over his life, since he had concluded that Arthur was done and satisfied and would thus turn to the law of Camelot to have him executed. Both to his relief and horror, Arthur did no such thing. Arthur had apparently not informed Uther of Merlin's magic, however he was certainly not done with him either. One incident turned into two, and the second brought on a third, and then a fourth, and after that Merlin stopped counting. His chances of attack were equal no matter where he was or what he was doing. As Arthur's manservant, they were literally inseparable, which gave the Prince more than plenty of chances to reap his revenge over and over again. Merlin had stopped counting, stopped caring, stopped being surprised. It was no longer a shock when Arthur threw him onto some kind of hard surface in an isolated location and forced his impossibly large member into Merlin's entrance which couldn't possibly get any smaller than it was. He was not startled when Arthur requested oral services either. Such events had become normal; they had become part of his life's routine. But two things had remained unchanged despite Merlin's growing apathy.

Fear still gripped him no matter how many times Arthur had forced him, and the pain would never, ever subside. Not once had Merlin derived even a hint of pleasure from the intercourse. It was impossible with all the agony that he experienced, but it was also made even more improbable by the psychological jail that he had been locked in. It was Arthur of all people who was doing it, and the pain that threatened to squeeze the life out of his chest heighted with every incident. Although Arthur had never explicitly stated so, Merlin was aware that there was a silent deal between them. In exchange for the unlimited use and abuse of Merlin's body, Arthur would be mute about his magic and thus allow him to live. Combined with the fact that it was Arthur who was his abuser and that Merlin was practically selling himself sexually for his survival, a dark pit of sorrow had nested itself comfortably in his heart. Even when Arthur wasn't in his presence, he still experienced indescribable pain as if he was.

The equal part of the deal was that neither of the two was to speak of the incidents unless they were actively involved in it at the moment. In other words, there carried on their lives as Prince and manservant and the abused and the abuser completely separately. There was never any outward indication that physical interactions were taking place between them. If Merlin was left with bruises or other injuries, they were easily excused as battle wounds from their various dangerous ventures. Arthur still smacked his servant upside the head for foolish mistakes and Merlin still grinned sheepishly in response. They still quarreled with each other and fought, and he still received a laundry list of chores to do from both his master and his guardian. But it was all a facade. Their actions in public had been reduced to a lie and a show to fool onlookers of their inner turmoil. Only behind closed doors did the true interaction take place, and such interactions although truthful, were never pleasant. But the facade was not perfect; it couldn't be. Although Arthur easily retained his usual strength and vigor, Merlin could not.

The poor boy was stricken both physically and mentally, and Arthur was the vampire who was sucking out his rapidly depleting life force. How long would his fate continue on like this? What about his destiny? Was it now to protect the man who was making his life hell? What did Arthur _want_ with him? The violent hurricane of sorrow soon began to ail not only his mind, but his body as well. Merlin was subjected to physical abuses that could not possibly leave his body unharmed. At least Arthur's mental whirlpool of emotions was mostly invisible physically and was exposed only from time to time in the form of a sudden lash of his tongue in ordinary conversation or a startled reaction to even the slightest tough. Merlin, on the other hand, was slowly being crippled. But no one would notice the subtle changes in a servant boy unless they were particularly close to him. No one noticed his steady decline in weight and the growing bags beneath his eyes that were inflicted by lack of sleep. No one noticed his diminishing appetite, or failure to eat altogether, and also his slow transition from pale to stark white. He had done all he could to keep up appearances. He still laughed and stammered meekly and fooled about and did his chores sloppily. Perhaps he himself was unaware of the progressing physical effects that were damaging his body. But although those minute details had escaped the notice of the mass majority, few prying eyes had actually managed to catch them.

"Ahh!" Dress and laundry basket and limbs went crashing to the ground as Merlin plowed around the corner and into Guinevere.

"Gwen! Oh gosh I'm so sorry, Gwen are you alright?" He stammered awkwardly and in a flurry as he staggered from the impact and then tried at the same time to reach for the maid. Struggling ensured as Guinevere's rise back into her feet was obstructed by Merlin's fretting and useless attempts to help her up.

"Oh Merlin! I'm fine—I'm fine _really_," she assured with a hearty laugh. Order was finally worked out when she accepted Merlin's outstretched hand and allowed him to ease her up from the ground. But as she witnessed the difficulty it took for him to lift her measly weight as well as the thin boniness of his weak hand, her suspicions were confirmed. It was not until several days ago that he actually caught her watchful eye. She was attentive like any good servant was and catered well to her mistresses needs, but of course it wasn't her duty to observe Merlin but her well trained eye could not help but notice the subtle changes in his condition. He was exhausted after completing tasks that he could previously handle without too much difficulty, and he seemed to be fumbling even more than the usual clumsy but at least decent manservant. More than ever he stumbled around the castle dazed and utterly unaware of his surroundings, which caused him to collide with oncoming objects and people. Her point was proven with this very recent happening. Before she could draw him into questioning, though, Merlin cut into her train of thought as he piped in with courteous concern. He had taken the liberty of gathering the scattered garments which had tumbled to the ground with her and relocated them back into the woven basket. Still looking sheepishly apologetic, he extended it out to her with a meek smile.

"You're sure you're alright? because I can ask Gaius take a look at you if there's anyth—" Guinevere raised her hand to silence him and reclaimed the basket with her other.

"I _promise_ you I'm alright, Merlin! It's nothing but a scratch and I'm _very_ certain that Gaius won't be needed here," she added with a cheerful giggle that made her black curls bounce. His reply came in the form of an even larger smile of relief. The boy was just so adorable sometimes—if only Arthur could be as considerate. Oh, speaking of Merlin again, she took the chance of uninterrupted silence to observe him up close. With both hands firmly gripping the basket, she looked up to meet Merlin's azure eyes. But instead of seeing the usual pool of shiny enthusiasm, she saw tired sunken optics that were surrounded by dark panda-like rings. His paleness has transformed completely into whiteness, and the already prominent ceases of his cheekbones were even more evident. He looked so tired, so stressed. The corners of her lips dropped and her smile melted into a concerned frown. Her brows knitted together to crease her delicate brown forehead, and she took a worried step closer to Merlin.

"Merlin…?"

"Yes, Gwen?" He paused in response to her expression which was contorted with worry. He immediately returned to innocent stammering. "Is something the matter? Like I said I'm sure Gaius would be more than happy to—"

"_Merlin_! Enough about me—are _you _alright?" He stopped.

Before he could protest, Guinevere released the basket and brought her hands up to his sunken face. She traced the lines in his flesh with her worn fingers and ran them over the now very noticeable signs of stress and fatigue. He was looking straight down at Gwen, feeling her caressing almost mothering touch, and feeling the genuine concern that radiated from her dark eyes. If only it was Arthur. If only it was Arthur who was showing him kind human emotions instead of just rage and fury. Oh how he wanted to release the distress that he had kept sealed to her! Not because it was Guinevere, but because she was another _human being_. He wanted to tell someone, to confide with someone, and to just have another living person provide him with even the slightest comfort in knowing that he was not alone in this turmoil. But he couldn't. Not even Gaius had seen through his well preformed facade. The old man had just passed it off as overwork from the Prince, which was not entirely wrong. But Gwen fretted for him simply out of compassion for a dear friend, because that was what friends did. Yet as he looked upon her face, he could only picture Arthur—he _desired_ that it was Arthur. But their definitions of 'friend' must have been terribly different, because Merlin saw Gwen as a friend, and Arthur had once seen Merlin as a friend, yet Gwen treated Merlin well and Arthur treated Merlin as he was now. He only shook his head at Gwen, giving the girl a faint smile. He was fine. _He was fine._

The moment of absolute tranquility was sabotaged, though, as the rabid jingling of chains and bells shrieked into the air. Gwen abruptly took her hands from Merlin's face and could only manage to flash him one last concerned look before the scene before them unfolded. In the center of the courtyard, castle guards armed with their spears marched in ridged lines and dragged along with them a young man in shackles and rags. His face was smeared black with dirt and his clothes were no more than shreds. Behind them followed a young woman, her face just as black and her clothing just as poor, and along with her she struggled in carrying a small child. The man was marched upon the elevated platform where an axe and system of execution awaited him. Forced to his knees with his head slammed onto the block, Merlin knew too well what was going to happen.

As if on cue, Uther made his grand entrance from above through the high balcony of the castle. He looked down upon the little faces of his subjects who had just been interrupted of their work.

"Today, this man here committed the forbidden use of magic and sorcery, and in accordance with Camelot law, shall be punished accordingly," he boomed. Silenced echoed below him as the people shivered under his authority. But before he could continue, a low voice sliced through the silence. It came from the condemned man.

"Please, sire, _please I beg of you_! They were going to hurt my child—I had no _choice_! I didn't do it on purpose, I had to do someth—"

"_Silence!"_ Uther thundered. "That is no excuse to break the law, and for the sin that you have committed, you shall be sentenced—" insert a dramatic pause here while Uther gazed around to catch any other rebels who would dare to speak out again this act, "—to death."

He raised his hand in tandem with the rise of the axe, and as his hand fell, so did the murder weapon. An agonized wail came from the woman below. She clutched her child as if the little girl would melt away if she didn't, and her sobs struck the hearts of all the passing onlookers.

Guinevere had quickly cast her eyes away before the axe had fallen, but Merlin had persisted the entire time. The mess was tidied until only the woman remained. The event had stirred memories that she had best forget about, so the maid pulled her composure back together and flashed a still somewhat startled but roughly cheerful smile at Merlin.

"Well, I suppose I'd best be going now," she managed to say to break the cold silence. "The clothes aren't going to wash themselves, right?" she added with a laugh. But the flimsy joke had gone straight through Merlin.

"Right…me too," Merlin responded. His eyes were still fixated on the pool of crimson and the scene of death. Once again he was present physically, but not mentally, and Guinevere was keen enough to realize that she would not be unable to reach him where he was. The trouble ran deep, deeper than she could go, and so all she did was the only thing that she could. She gave him another comforting smile and then a quick pat on the arm.

"Take care of yourself, Merlin." With that, she picked up the woven basket and left Merlin alone standing in a pool of despair.

It had escaped Merlin's attention, but Arthur had also witnessed the gruesome scene. While the warlock was fixated by the terror, Arthur had been poised by his little rectangular window, peering down with a birds eye view that showed him details that he did not wish to see. He'd watched the fall of the axe, the horror in the sorcerer's eyes, and the tears fall from his new widow and fatherless child. Arthur had seen death before. He had seen the deaths of countless comrades and enemies alike, so the tumble of the head had had little effect on him as it was. However, it was the man's final words that had forced him to tear his eyes away.

That could have been Merlin. That could have been Merlin bound in chains and reduced to nothing more than a criminal whose death was in the name of false peace. Instead of a wife and child, he could see Merlin's dear mother, Guinevere, and even Gaius standing at the base of the platform, weeping streams of tears as they watched their friend, son, and livelihood die. It was this thought that had shaken Arthur the most, along with the final plea that the sorcerer had given. He had done it to protect his child, or so he stated. Falling back into a pit of memories, Arthur returned to the night that had crushed his reality. What had Merlin said again? Despite asking himself that, he knew very well the answer since every second of interaction with the manservant was burned into his mind. He had attempted to defend himself in saying that he had only ever used magic for 'good', or for Arthur himself. So did that make his treachery acceptable? Deep creases emerged on the Prince's flawless face. A mere hour had passed since the violent display, and he was now seated at his dining table and sported a stereotypical thinking pose. His elbows were supported by the hard wood and his hands were perched in front of his face. He shook his head. No…no of course it was no excuse. He'd heard his father. The use of magic, under any circumstance, was illegal. _So_ _not even using it to save another life was justified_. Alas, his enormous thought bubble burst when his chamber doors creaked open.

"Sire," a familiar voice injected. It was Merlin. He carried with him a heavy silver tray that held a colorful meal. Meats, fruits, and greens were all piled onto the little tray to give the Prince the best possible nutrition. The double doors thundered shut, as Merlin, with both hands occupied, was unable to ease them closed as he usually would. He sported his usual shaggy grin and addressed Arthur politely. There was, of course, absolutely no indication of _any_ physical interaction between the two whatsoever. He had to admit that his manservant had fared well. He hadn't broken down into sobs or taken a mental nose dive…_yet_. But he knew that the smile was a facade. He also knew that his usual haughty command was also a facade.

"Just leave it here," he ordered while making a small gesture at the table top before him. Ordinarily he would have happily torn into the mighty meal, but not today—not after witnessing the bloody execution. This was truly a first. He had always been able to keep himself in good health no matter the situation. No matter the death of his knights, the casualties of war, or a brutal chastisement from Uther, he had always been able to sufficiently stuff himself in preparation for the next worst thing that could happen. But today it was different. He had not just seen an ordinary man get executed. He had seen Merlin. He looked up at his manservant who was still smiling like a bloody fool. His hands were set politely behind his back as they always were, and he loitered by the table's edge to wait on his Prince. It was almost as if there was no problem at all. But no, there certainly was a problem, but it was masterfully hidden away and sealed beneath layers and layers of denial. Today, though, Arthur would breach their happy act, as he asked Merlin a question which he had long been tortured by.

"Merlin?" he questioned, yet again looking dreadfully serious.

"Yes, Sire?" was the perfectly cheery response.

"How many times have you _assisted_ me using magic?"

He received no response.

The real question at hand was 'how many times have you _saved_ me using magic', but that of course would never be admitted by Arthur. He waited patiently for an answer to reach his ears, but when none did, he lifted his eyes off the irrelevant details of the dining table and impaled Merlin with his gaze. By now, Merlin knew very well where the subject of magic would lead him to. Out of the eye of the public, he allowed his act to slip when he sucked in a short startled breath. He met Arthur's burning glare and raced for a response. No matter his response, the outcome would be the same. If he said nothing, the outcome would be the same. Pressured by the second to produce an answer, his brain failed him when he gave only a pathetic response.

"I…I don't know. Several times—a lot of times?" He stuttered, his gaze wildly flickering around the room to look at anything but Arthur. It was damned if you don't and damned if you do, because Arthur had appreciated his decency to respond, but did not in the least enjoy the answer.

"How. Many. Times." He demanded a second time through tightly clutched teeth. Merlin once again flew into a silent internal panic. He knew the stage of anger that Arthur was in. He knew that an answer was necessary, and fast, but all decent responses escaped him. The true answer was probably along the lines of 'several hundred times, or more, but definitely no less', but this of course he could not directly say to the Prince. His mind paced in circles in attempt to scrap up an answer. What was a decent number? If he shot too low than Arthur would know that he was lying, but if he shot too high then he would most definitely fly into an even more devastating rage. Panic welled in Merlin's chest as Arthur began pounding his fingers against the table. He spat out the most damning sentence that he could.

"Arthur I really don't know! I've saved you with magic so many times that I—" the landmine went off.

Arthur swept the meal that he wasn't going to eat clean off the table. Perfectly edible food went wasted as scraps splashed, crashed, or thudded to the ground. His decorated chair was launched backward, and Arthur himself flew from his seat. He hadn't been _saved_! Uther had already declared that such an excuse was not sufficient—Merlin couldn't possibly rely on such a response. The Prince sank deeper and deeper into denial. He would never, ever admit that he had to thank magic for his survival. He would never, ever admit that without it he would be dead. He would never, ever admit that it was Merlin who did it, because if he did, then that would mean certain death for his one and only manservant.

He wrapped his strong hand around Merlin's sickly thin forearm and ripped the boy off his feet. Shock flashed in his blue eyes, but not surprise. He neither put up a fight nor displayed any resistance. Instead, he tittered in toward Arthur as the man practically threw him around like a doll. Arthur had at first made the bed his target, but he turned back in his rage and concluded that its plush comfortable surface was too much a delicacy for Merlin. It was hardly suitable for abuse. To he instead turned to the dining table which was perfectly convenient and sturdy enough to withstand strenuous activity. He threw Merlin hard against the side where the boys gut was practically squished by the edge and forced his torso flat onto the surface. This only forced the slightest gasp out of Merlin, for he had learned to reduce his protests quickly. The cold wooden surface met his cheek and the sweaty palms of his hands. Before he had even processed the inevitability of the coming events, Arthur had already pounced ahead to the action and had his hands on the band of his trousers.

"A-Arthur, the door!" Merlin managed to wheeze out with difficulty despite being pressed painfully against the table. His eyes darted up to the golden handles that indicated the lock had yet to be latched. The present situation was already horrendous enough, but being exposed of both this and his magic would be devastating. But Arthur was blind in his anger and only retorted with a snarky response.

"Why don't you use magic to lock it, _Merlin_," he snorted with scorn. By then he had brought Merlin's rags for trousers down to his knees thus exposing his bare cheeks. Being the Prince of Camelot, Arthur was quick to learn. He had discovered after his various _interactions_ with Merlin that not even he could, without difficulty, plow straight into the entrance without slight preparations. His so called preparations, though, were indeed _slight_. With absolutely no concern for Merlin's well being, he targeted the only source of disposable liquid still on the table top, which was the pitcher that he had thankfully spared, and snatched it within his iron grip. With his other hand he pushed Merlin's equally raggedy tunic up to reveal the paleness of his back. It would provide with very little assistance in easing the process, but nonetheless he splashed a thin flow of cool water down the fissure of Merlin's spine and let it trickle down south. He watched the snaking liquid follow the little dips and fleshy plains of his back. It slowly crept down his lower back in an almost tantalizing manner in forcing Arthur to restrain his desire until the liquid reached its target. Every fine detail was made clear by the waters glistening properties when it reached Merlin's entrance. It rolled in collected little drops, each gliding smoothly over the abused region before venturing into more sensitive terrain. Following his anatomy, the liquid was sucked by gravity down to invade the little creases and lines upon his sacks, and it clung snugly to its path as it continued to travel down his limp organ until the trail cut off and the droplet splashed to the ground.

This only evoked a mild shiver through Merlin from the sudden coldness. Pressed against the table, he shook from the odd tickling sensation that was left by the trail of water and resisted the painful urge to dab away at the wetness that it left. Within Arthur, however, it evoked an entirely different response.

He could not tear his eyes away from the slow trail of the water. He watched it explore and invade the little crevasses of Merlin's body in such a delicate way that he could not possibly replicate. It had danced, swirled, and pooled in the uneven fleshy platform of his lumbar like a tiny performance, and Merlin was the show. To his horror, Arthur felt a familiar heat begin to grow in his trousers. The longer the trail of liquid ran, the more uncomfortable the level of heat rose, until he could no longer ignore its call and slammed down the pitcher. By then his arousal had created a sizeable bulge below, and it had been evoked entirely by the man beneath him. This fresh realization sent more fury into the violent storm of emotions that was already raging out of control. His response to this was nothing less then violent as he claimed a firm grip on Merlin's shoulder and crushed him further onto the table. He had done little, yet beads of sweat were already forming on his forehead and his shirt began to get sticky on his flesh. A confused growl escaped his lips.

"This is your fault—this is _all your bloody fault_!" he hissed. It was all Merlin's fault that he was a sorcerer, it was all his fault Arthur had turned to committing these horrid acts, it was all his fault that Arthur was _hard_ because of him. Not once had Merlin's physical traits or actions evoked any kind of pleasure in him. Despite their previous encounters, Arthur had relied solely on self stimulation, and the physical entwining of their bodies had carried out the rest. But today, he had reached the point of heated painful desire without any physical contact, and Merlin had done absolutely nothing. He was just Merlin, and Merlin made him this way.

He was confused, and when he was confused, he was angry. Beneath him, Merlin withered in discomfort and squirmed in attempt to achieve a more comfortable position, but with Arthur's powerful hand pressed against his back, free movement was impossible. He closed his eyes in defeat and sucked in a tight breath, bracing for impact that would come entirely out of the blue. Arthur never gave any warning, and today was no different. Fueled by confusion and anger, he fumbled his belt open and lowered his trousers to expose his needy length. The jingling of his belt had giving Merlin some future sight, but it had ultimately come to him as an agonizing surprise when Arthur forced his way into him with one powerful thrust. A hoarse gasp left his lips to signify the pangs of agony that resulted. The now too familiar burning sensation scorched and hissed without mercy and wrung another cry out of Merlin, but he nipped down with discipline upon his lower lip to withhold as much of his wail as possible. Tears pricked in the corners of his eyes as he felt Arthur's intruding member with all too much clarity. He was merciless, pounding to the hilt and then shrinking out to the tip, only to bang back to the base again to evoke the maximum amount of misery in Merlin.

The most noise he made following the first few intrusive thrusts were well controlled and muffled cries. The worn sleeve of his blue tunic served as a gag which he snapped his teeth and lips around to keep from letting out tormented sobs. It was pitiful to know that he had literally adapted to the situation and learned to master his voice. He made it his only pastime to ease the pain. He had turned to concentrating solely on the throbbing pain in his jaw from its tight clutch in attempt to ignore the scorching agony that came from behind. He did just that.

But he was so tired. With each pounding thrust, Merlin's stamina was drained a quart, and each minute he remained standing was like poison to his weakening body. His legs shook from the repeated impacts and withholding his cries became increasingly difficult as his energy depleted. His lids drooped heavily over his eyes and fluttered to remain open. Soon the shaking in his legs just turned into raw throbbing as he forced himself to remain upright. Yet all of this Arthur was blind too for a reason that he failed to admit.

Arthur wasn't just enjoying it today. He was _relishing_ it. The sensation of being fully enclosed in hot tightness was no longer alien, but now it felt as if the temperature had been increased by double digits and the tightness constricted even tighter. The wetness of Merlin's insides thoroughly wrapped around his arousal that ached painfully for satisfaction. The friction of his strong movements burned with sweet pleasure with every push and pull and left his head dizzy in hazy bliss and gratification. With each thrust he came one inch closer to the ultimate satisfaction, and with each thrust he rabidly ramped up the pace. While Merlin could only allow weak whines to emit from his throat, Arthur had to make the effort to repress his growing urge to let out a lengthy moan. Gasps and sighs of gratification were all he allowed, but blinded by his agony, Merlin hardly noticed the Princes pleasure. It was hotter, wetter, and tighter then any of their previous interactions, and it was by far the best yet.

Wet sloshing sounded every time Arthur initiated another violent plunge. He had never allowed Merlin the pleasure of neither seeing him nor hearing him enjoy the event. He had always conveniently positioned his servant so that he had no view of Arthur at all. In equal exchange, Arthur only ever saw Merlin's back too. He'd only caught quick flashes of his face contorted in agony, but he knew that if he ever saw more, the bubbling pool of self-loathing would rise and swallow him whole.

Had he looked at Merlin's face today, though, that pool would have erupted with the force of a volcano. No part of his body was free from pain. His rear throbbed with the intrusion that was too large for him to accommodate for, his waist was raw from his uncomfortably bent position, and his legs begged for relief and threatened to fail him. Just be over. Just be _over and let it all end. _At that point, controlling his strained voice had become impossible. He let out choked sobs even as he bit loosely down onto his sleeve. Blurry minded with exhaustion, he involuntarily choked out Arthur's name to beg for mercy that he would never receive.

"A-Arthur," he coughed in a daze, no longer even thinking about the repercussions that would ensue if he dared to speak. But Arthur would hear no useless begging.

"_Shut up_, Merlin," his abuser hissed in response. He was in heaven, he was bathed in absolute _bliss_, and he wasn't going to have Merlin going and ruining it.

In truth, he didn't want to believe in the cruel reality that he was engaging in. He didn't want to know that it was Merlin beneath him, withering in pain and crying in misery. But hearing his name come off the boy's lips sent a pang of agony into his own torn heart. It _was_ Merlin beneath him, and god how much did he want to end this all himself. But he couldn't turn back—not now, not after what he had already done. For a single brief moment, Arthur leaned down over Merlin, closer than he had ever gotten, and closed the distance between their torsos. The bareness of Merlin's back met the front of his tunic, but the heat of another human being was there despite the barrier. The intimate contact lasted a fleeting minute, before Arthur rose to his standing position again, and then proceeded as if he hadn't just given Merlin the closest thing to an embrace that he had ever given.

Merlin felt the warmth against his back. He felt the soft texture of the Princes fine tunic and all the folds and creases. He had washed the garment more times than he could count, but it felt as if he touched them for the first time in that instant. A tear trickled down his cheek as he did his best to absorb as much of the moment as possible. For the glorious single minute, Arthur was his friend again, and then after that, he once again regressed to being his abuser. Lost in the moment and his fatigue, Merlin managed to open his mouth and made a declaration that he had been contemplating for months.

"I swear, Arthur, I _swear_ that I will never use magic ever again."

With that, Arthur felt the surge of pleasure mounting to its tipping point and managed to force one last thrust before he was brought to completion. His sticky whiteness painted Merlin's insides and the tight groping walls almost literally sucked him dry. He unintentionally let out a ringing sigh that bordered a moan as the seemingly endless waves of bliss caked his senses that were fuming on overdrive. Heavy breathes filled the air as he and Merlin's chests rose and fell in desperate search of more oxygen to fuel their lungs. After the last shimmers of pleasure passed through him, Arthur retreated from his violated manservant. Merlin's promise made in a moment of exhausted hysteria rang in his mind as he remained unmoving, still perched behind him, but he quickly discarded it as nothing but tired babbles.

Finally he allowed himself to separate from the scene. The usual clean up routine followed, or in other words, he did what little tidying was required of himself and then left Merlin to pick up the rest of the pieces. He gave no verbal order, but by then Merlin already knew perfectly well what was needed of him. The boy had slipped off the table and fallen in a heap the moment he had been released. Like a tired dog he panted against the hardness of the stone floor. The coldness of the stone did well to ease his elevated temperature, and the soreness that haunted his entire body appreciated the contrast in temperature. His usually fluffy black strands now sagged with sweat and his trousers were smeared with bodily fluids. If the dark rings around his eyes had not been previously visible, then they certainly were now, for the young man appeared as if he had aged a decade. Like an elderly man it would take time for him to regain the stamina necessary to even perform the simple task of rising to his feet, and this Arthur knew, so he turned his eyes away from the pitiful scene and made to leave. But before he exited the heavy doors, Merlin caught him with one final statement.

"No matter what the situation, no matter what is at stake, and no matter what the consequences, I will never, so long as I live, _ever_ use magic again."

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading another long chapter! Actually about this chapter, I just wanted to clarify one thing. In the brief part with Gwen, I didn't intend for any indications of Merlin/Gwen or anything of that sort. I just wanted to show how much Merlin wanted Arthur to be as kind as Gwen is to him (so I kind of used her lol). Anyway, the sole pairing in this is Arthur and Merlin, and Guinevere is just here to be a little cheerleader because that's the only thing that she's good at. *slapped*


	4. Chapter 4: And Hope to Die

**Chapter 4: And Hope to Die **

"Merlin?"

"…Merlin?"

"_Merlin!_"

"Huhyeswhat?" The boy jumped with a start, giving his spoon a little flick that sent a splatter of soup across the table between him and Gaius. "Were you saying something, Gaius?" The elderly man laid down his own spoon within the depleted soup bowl and eased it aside.

"Yes, I was—and for quite some time now too, but it appears that you haven't heard a word." Gaius brushed aside his crusty old locks of aged white hair. Concern was evident upon his face as his brows wrinkled, and he closely examined the boy before him. The small table kept the two separated, but there was little to nothing that could obstruct his deduction of Merlin. Sure the boy was a tad bit rebellious and had his fair share of disobedience, but when difficulty arrived at his door step, Merlin had always arrived at his. Upon the little wooden table were two bowls, one depleted of its contents and another hardly even disturbed. One would imagine that it would be the energetic young man who had slurped away every drop of his meal and it was the old man who no longer had much of an early morning appetite, but it was completely the opposite. Although the spoon dangled weakly between his pale fingers, it had hardly even grazed the substance, and the young warlock had spent time that he should have spent eating it simply staring at it in numb silence.

At first he had thought it was merely a phase. Oh young men these days—Gaius could not possibly hope to keep up with them and their adolescent fits. When it persisted, he then reasoned that it was overwork from Arthur. That too was very probable considering the way that he had seen Arthur work Merlin before. But neither overwork nor a youthful spree could have produced such results as these. Instead of a healthy young man before him, he instead saw a withered exhausted boy. Merlin's paleness had reached an all-time white; it was whiter than white and could practically glow if he stood under the suns rays. The whiteness only made the dark rings around his eyes look even darker. The sockets of his optics sank heavily into his head, giving him the appearance of a sickly man on his death bed. If Gaius wasn't the excellent physician that he was, he would immediately have jumped to the conclusion that that was just the case, the perhaps Merlin had been stricken by some kind of illness. But that was not the case. He bore no signs of fever or disease.

He did, however, seem to suffer some kind of physical ailment. Fatigue had consumed the poor boys body to the point that he was stumbling regularly. To his shame for not noticing earlier, he had just assumed Merlin's clumsiness was reaching a record high (for Merlin had many failing that could easily cover the tracks of an ailment, sadly so), but his physical weakness also persisted to the point that it could no longer be brushed off. His deprivation of sleep and complete loss of appetite certainly did not serve to aid him either. Too many times now he found Merlin's dish still full to the brim with nearly untouched food, and too many times he had woken in the night to the sound of Merlin's restless turning and tossing. But what struck him most as odd was that Merlin had said not a word of concern to him. He hadn't come fretting like a girl to the aged physician for consultation. He hadn't openly expressed _any_ kind of worry. And for not doing so, Gaius could not think of a reasonable explanation.

He looked hard at the boy with his well trained eye. He brought his wrinkled hands up onto the table and laced them together neatly before him to rouse an air of seriousness, and really, Gaius was very serious.

"Is something the matter, Merlin?" he questioned, his tone low and his voice nothing but a silent whisper. He leaned in closer across the table as if the closeness might allow him to feel less alone and more prompted to speak his mind, but Merlin only produced a confused expression with his head tilted ever so slightly and his dark brows raised.

"…No, not that I know of. As far as I know everything's quite fine," he replied in seemingly genuine confusion as if he really had no idea why Gaius would ask such a thing. In return, Merlin gave the court physician and concerned look of his own. "Is everything alright with _you,_ Gaius? Because I can't see why you'd ask me this," he added. His expression was so innocent, so childish, so much like the good little Merlin that was too good for all the evils and dangers that he faced around every corner. It was so innocent that Gaius nearly believed him. But he had known the boy too long to lose to him so quickly.

"My only concern is you, my boy. Are you sure that everything is alright? You know that if you wish to speak, I will always be here to listen." Concern drenched his voice and with each word he further examined Merlin. He craned his neck this way and that way looking the boy up to down, or at least looking at as much as he could see from their positions around the table. There were no anomalies.

"Yes, Gaius, I'm _positive_," he assured with a serious nod. But the seriousness was brief, or perhaps Merlin could not retain a serious expression for long, because he soon broke into a wide amused smile. "Why, I didn't know you cared so much about me!" He joked while sporting a smug smile. Gaius could not help but return with a smile of his own upon seeing this sight.

"Neither did I!" he joked in return, but continued with one final effort to squeeze information from the warlock. "Now, are you absolutely certain that there's nothing you would like to speak to me about?"

"For the last time, Gaius, _yes_ I'm certain. Your hair will get even whiter if you keep worrying like this," he joked again with his little lamb-like grin.

"So you are not ill?"

"Don't think so."

"Perhaps you are suffering from nightmares?"

"I'm fairly certain that I'm _nothing_ like Morgana."

"Or could it be lady troubles?"

"What? No Gaius how could you even think that?"

"Well, you _are_ young after all and I just thought that maybe—"

"_No, _Gaius, I am perfectly fine and I am mostdefinitely _not_ having troubles with women!" He could not hold back a laugh as he said this. Ah, Gaius never failed to make him feel better even in his darkest hours. A small chain of laughter ensued, and one voice was soon followed by another as Gaius' hearty laughter joined Merlin's youthful amusement. The old man beamed at Merlin as if he was his own son and gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

"Well then, let us keep it that way! You and I both should be on our way soon, for I believe Uther has a small consult planned for this morning, and things certainly won't be 'fine' if either of us are late." He gave Merlin another fatherly smile and Merlin returned it with a nonchalant grin. But as he cleared the table, as he carried away his empty bowl and Merlin's full dish, and as he had felt the thin boniness of his shoulder, Gaius could not help but still fret over the child. What could be bothering him so that he would not even speak of it to him? The boy held few things secret from him, and he imagined that if he ever did, it could only be something truly, utterly, terrible. And it most definitely was.

The old mans kindness had some dangerously close to breaking Merlin, to unsealing his lips and making him throw up all the horrid confessions that he had held welled inside. Something was indeed the matter, but Gaius had asked if there was anything that he would like to speak to him about, and the true answer to that was 'no'. He so dearly wanted to confide to Gaius, yet at the same time he did not. He wanted someone to know, but he did not want them to know. The pull of contradictions strained his mind as he had risen from his seat, leaving a near untouched breakfast behind. Gaius had once told him that for someone who held a very big secret, he was terrible at keeping them. Well, he supposed now that he was just bad at keeping secrets selectively, for he could hardly hold his tongue about his magic but he had put up the perfect mask about his ordeal with Arthur. At the time, this had failed to strike him as odd, but later he would come to realize that he would do anything to protect Arthur, _anything_, but so little to protect himself. The weight of Arthur's wellbeing weighed so heavily that his puny existence could not even hope to compare. And this was why through his entire conversation with Gaius, he had not once broken his mask, and lied through his teeth at the man who had given him everything.

Good byes were uttered as Merlin stumbled out the door with the court physician lingering still inside. He truly stumbled out, as Gaius had caught the boy off step and plowing into the edge of the door frame before realizing his error and correcting his path so that he actually exited through the doorway instead of the frame. His mental excuse for his growing clumsiness was that he had an overgrown prat to wake before the consult with Uther so he'd best make haste least both the prat and the prats father had his head for reasons besides that obvious. He tittered through the long corridors of the castle and around its winding stairs. Alone on his trek to Arthur's luxurious room, he gave himself the liberty to relinquish his hardened facade. He let himself be, well, himself.

Merlin had split his identity into two very different men. One was Merlin the manservant, destined to be trapped under the foot of his Prince, and the other was Merlin the sorcerer, destined for things greater than any other man has ever known. He was able to be the latter with few people, while the rest he was forced to play the part of the first with and never allowed them to even get a glimpse of his latter, true, self. But now he was stripped of that liberty too. He could no longer be Merlin the sorcerer before Gaius, his one and only confident; he had to be Merlin the manservant. He had to put up his front to distract eyes from the pains that Arthur inflicted on him, for the sorcerer was a broken man while the manservant was as cheery as ever. Alone as he walked, the sorcerer was exhausted, ached with every step, and felt lower than the dirt on the ground. His eyes were aimed at the ground and his steps were little shuffles that barely carried him a foot at a time. After the eternity that it took to finally reach the doors of Arthur's chambers, he felt an invisible tugging at his ankle. It was an imaginary ball and chain that latched down his freedom, his livelihood, his magic. It was a symbol that Arthur had won and ultimately gotten what he had desired the most. He had stripped Merlin of his magic, and left him completely, and utterly, empty.

But alas that was the sorcerer, and in Arthur's presence he was the manservant. He would be the goofy useless manservant who used routine lines to wake him and then wait on him poorly during meals. Before Arthur, he would never be a sorcerer, and would now and forever be a manservant. The moment he pushed open the heavy doors and set foot into the Prince's territory, he was Merlin was manservant, and he would play the part well.

"Rise and shine, Arthur!" Merlin chimed with glee in his tone as he threw open the lavish curtains. Blinding light speared into the room and cast long lines of illumination all through the dark space. Like a child, Arthur met with the unwelcomed intrusion by rolling over with a grunt and pulling his thick covers higher up over his face to force the light out. After all his years of service, this was quite a familiar scene, and Merlin had long since produced counter methods for the Princes early morning reluctance.

"Your father is waiting for you, so…get…up…Arthur!" The end of his sentence lagged as he snatched a handful of the silk covers in his fists and then, with one clean swoop, tore them from Arthur's clutches. This left the Prince bare from the waist up and at the mercy of the cold against his exposed flesh, for he never slept with a shirt on it seemed. He flipped around with a jolt at the sudden drop in temperature and groped violently for his covers, only to be met by the painful glares of powerful morning sunshine. Defeated by the glare his raised a hand in defense and squinted his eyes near shut.

"What that—_Merlin!_" he hissed, now groping around his unnecessarily large bed with his other hand. It found a pillow and despite its soft, plush, unthreatening form, turned it into a weapon of mass destruction as he launched it at his manservant. The Prince's impeccable aim landed the pillow square on Merlin's face. But little to his care or knowing, the measly impact of the plush pillow was enough to send Merlin down. Such details had escaped Arthur, but Merlin was well aware of the fatigue he was left with after a task so simple as removing Arthur's covers. Doubled with a surprise pillow to the face, he lost all orientation and coordination. He was a blur of arms and legs and pillow as he tittered down to the ground. His arms pinwheeled as he clawed for something to catch his fall, but to no avail, and he simply ended up with a sore rear on the ground. Still smothered from fresh sleep, Arthur took no notice to this oddity.

"_Merlin_!" he snapped again, "Can't you think of _better_ ways to wake me?" After another series of turns and flips in attempt to snatch an extra few seconds of rest, Arthur submitted to the call and bolted up right. His still blurry eyes were greeting by the impact of the light spilling in romantically through his window and the familiarity of his bedchamber. He ran his callused fingers through his mess of golden locks that had been unsettled by his sleep and let out an irritated sigh. Then his eyes landed on Merlin.

"What on _earth_ are you doing down there?" His face twisted into puzzlement at the sight of his manservant sprawled on the ground, tangled in the curtains, and with a single pillow by his side. But Merlin was quick to recover. He scrambled to stand, kicking away at the curtains and fumbling to both right himself and bring up the pillow with him.

"I—ah—nothing!" he blurted with an innocent grin upon his lips as he scrambled to rise. "It's just that you weren't waking so," he paused between rugged breathes brought on by his fall, "so I thought more _dramatic measures_ were necessary," he joked blamelessly while holding out the pillow for Arthur to retrieve. He snatched the item back and practically ripped it from Merlin's grasp.

"Well don't ever use those _measures_ again; they're perfectly horrid," he retorted with a dismissing wave.

He threw his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Having noticed that Merlin had remained unmoving in front of him, looking unabashed (and foolish) as usual, he sent him an irked eye roll. "Come _on_, Merlin, we haven't got all day! My father is waiting for me," he added as if he was the first of the two to come to his realization when really, Merlin had already reminded him of this matter. But the boy only gave a senseless grin in return and commenced to dress the Prince.

Tunic and trousers and sword belt went on with the usual difficulty caused by Merlin's clumsiness. With the challenge of getting dressed finally conquered, Merlin was forced to race down to the kitchen at mach one speed to retrieve the Prince's breakfast which he had forgotten to do in his daze. Childish spats had ensued. But one particular order roused an ominous shadow over Merlin.

"After you clean this up," Arthur gestured at his thoroughly devoured meal, "Prepare my armor." Already in the midst of clearing the table top, Merlin looked up from his duties and cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Why? You haven't got any plans, have you?" The manservant had been told of nothing that required his armor, at least not anytime soon in the morning. No rides, no training, and no formal events were on the morning lineup, and the readying of his armor for the coming events in the afternoon could wait.

"No, but my father does," was the short reply he received.

Truthfully, Merlin had dreaded the thought of having to ready the armor. All the heavy plates, the little bolts, and the clinking chainmail weighed heavily on the manservant's fatigue, for Arthur had failed where Guinevere and Gaius had not. He had been utterly blind to Merlin's rapidly deteriorating condition, but perhaps that was because Merlin's best front was displayed in front of him. He did not question why a simple pillow had managed to knock the boy down or why he had looked absolutely drained after just pulling off his covers. The blindness may have been a result of Arthur's own denial, but alas he was just as much to blame as Merlin was, for Merlin was indeed creating his best facade that was to be preformed before Arthur and Arthur only. The boy's only remaining sanctuary within their relationship was in their roles as Prince and manservant. When in those roles, it was as if Arthur had never uncovered Merlin's magic. It was as if the abuse was never taking place, and as if Merlin's world had never been stripped away from him. Things were normal. Things were wonderfully, blissfully, normal. And he would do anything to keep it that way.

So he did not prepare the armor. Arthur's words haunted some distant corner of Merlin's mind, but that was all put to an end when they arrived in the royal presence of King Uther.

"Ah, Arthur! Good morning," the King greeted heartily. He had been standing at the end of the long table with a mess of parchment and feather pens scattered across its surface. Upon seeing the arrival of his son, he lifted his gaze from his work and flashed him a warm smile, a smile that Merlin found almost impossible to believe considering the pain that this man had inflicted. He gave a wave at the few council men who were also positioned around the table, and each backed away to their positions as Uther himself reclaimed his throne. Merlin and Gaius were pushed from the picture with their heads bowed in respect and settled to their positions beside the mighty pillars that supported the throne room. Arthur gave his father a just as respectful incline of his head to acknowledge the greeting.

"Good morning to you too, father. I understand that you wished to see me?" The Prince inquired politely.

"Indeed I did." The King, who had just been wearing a blissfully joyous expression as he beamed at his pride and joy, dipped into a serious hardened state. He looked neither relaxed nor dire, so to Arthur this indicated that there were slight troubles at hand, and no doubt Uther would dispatch him to take care of them. He was correct, of course. "Some disturbances have been reported in the lower towns. There is word that a _creature_ of sorts has been terrorizing the citizens."

In a moment of fleeting arrogance, Arthur shot a glance over his shoulder at Merlin and gave him a look that taunted, '_told you that you should've prepared my armor_'. But he was quickly sucked out of the pompous state when his father resumed in his speech.

"I would like you, Arthur, to investigate this matter."

"Of course—I will take my men and we shall ride out at noon." Seeing that the case seemed closed, Arthur gave another courteous bow and turned to leave, but was caught by a final warning from Uther.

"Oh and, there is one more thing," the King spoke, his tone suddenly lower and his expression made disapprovingly grave. He brought up one gloved hand to his chin and lingered his fingers just over his lips as if what he was about to say would be so revolting that he did not wish others to see his lips move to say it. "There is reason to believe that _magic_—" he grimaced at the word,"—is at work here, and if it is then I expect you will handle the matter accordingly." His firm expression and hardened glare pierced holes into Arthur. They stabbed at his fleshy figure and tore away at his soul. In other words, his orders were to slay whoever was responsible for conjuring the creature, should it be the case. Arthur had long since sympathized with his father's hatred of magic, but he never, ever, enjoyed what the hatred did to him. Even as he was looking at his son, if the thought of magic was in his mind his glare would rip and pierce as if he was looking at a sorcerer right that instant.

Back half turned, Arthur gave only a silent nod, and then exited the room.

Merlin followed close behind like the little puppy that he was. And of course the moment the massive doors of the throne room were shut and Uther was out of ear shot, Arthur snatched the moment to gloat in his triumph.

"I _told_ you to prepare my armor," he joisted, giving Merlin a smug self-satisfied sneer. The boy only gave him a lopsided grin in response and retorted with a not-so-clever joke himself.

"Yeah yeah, I should have listened to you because apparently _you can see the future_!" The usual routine ensued. Blows to the arm were exchanged and more bad jokes were passed, but beneath their impeccable show was spreading worry, for Merlin anyway.

He found himself near the point of exhaustion in the armory, looking down at a pile of impossibly heavy equipment. How could knights bare these things? All the clangy metal and heavy laces of iron rings—if they aren't struck down in combat by a sword than the sheer weight of their armor must be what killed them. Ok, Merlin, let's try this again. He gave a low grunt as he wrapped his arms around the plates and articles. They felt heavily, larger, and even more inconvenient than they had ever been. It was as if their weight had secretly doubled since the last time he suited up Arthur. Actually, it was not the armor that became heavier, but Merlin who became weaker, and this he knew too well. Nonetheless he had to convince himself that he was still perfectly capable of protecting his Prince. No pile of armor was going to stop him.

Time progressed to the afternoon without any casualties. One way or another Arthur had been properly dressed in all his layers of chainmail and armored plates, and a small platoon had been gathered while the horses were prepared. Arthur had kept to his word and when the clock struck twelve, him and ten knights galloped out of the castle gates and ventured for the lower towns. Merlin flanked his side as the lone man who did not sport a bellowing red cape. But he didn't need to be a knight to protect Arthur. Besides, they had faced many mysterious _creatures _before. What would make this event different? Merlin would find out, soon enough.

"We begin the search here!" Arthur declared as he trotted a little circle upon his horse as if to do a preliminary three hundred and sixty degree survey of the woods around them. Hours had passed since their initial departure and the sky was beginning to show signs of dimming. They had passed through a small town that appeared to be the primary victims of this particular case. Upon seeing the mighty knights plow through their lands, they had overflowed with tears of relief and comfort, for they knew that all would be well. They had stopped only briefly to gather some witness accounts in regard to the beast, for Uther had provided them with no description at all. Unfortunately, neither did the townspeople. Their only knowledge of the beast was that it was large, as large as some of the massive boars that occasionally roamed the forests, and it was as white as daylight. Contrary to most mysterious beasts that Merlin had heard of, this particular one struck in the day. Upon hearing this, Arthur had plowed dead ahead and was determined to use their remaining hours of daylight to catch and slay the so called beast. By the time they arrived at the forest, Merlin reckoned that they had but three hours of daylight left. But that seemed to be plenty of time to Arthur.

One by one the knights demounted their horses. Red capes flapped wildly as they plopped down onto the ground scattered with dead leaves that were damp with the autumn dew. Merlin could say little about their location. It wasn't particularly pleasant. It was as any other forest was, any other village was, and any other day was. The sky had dimmed a notch from its usual bright blue hue which indicated the steady decline of the sun, along with their slowly diminishing time to stumble upon some beast. Trees clouded a great portion of the sky from their position, though, as their tall branches reached up as it to graze the heavens. Merlin followed the lead of the knights and demounted, only he did so not quite as gracefully as they had. As one foot hit the ground, his knee quaked under his weight and failed under the strain. This forced his other foot to slip awkwardly off the saddle and then thanks to momentum, Merlin met the ground with not his feet but his back instead. Dead leaves plumed around him, dotting him with specks of brown and orange, and the dry ones crunched beneath him like he had just crushed a massive bug. All eyes fell on the humiliating scene, but dismissed it once they realized that it was Merlin.

"What _are_ you doing down there, _Mer_lin?" Looking up from his planted position, Merlin saw Arthur step into his field of vision, only he was upside down and way in perspective. "We've got a beast to kill so get up and at least _pretend_ to be useful," he snorted.

"I'll get right on that," Merlin groaned, his already aching limbs now screaming out in more agony. At this point he could no longer hide his weakness. He knew he was crippling slowly and that he was practically now reduced to a useless pile of flesh and bone. It would be a challenge to keep pace with Arthur and the knights, but he would make it happen, somehow, someway.

"Anytime now, _Mer_lin!" Arthur hollered at his fallen manservant who had still yet to right himself. Judging by the reduced volume of his voice, Merlin concluded that Arthur and the other knights had already ventured off a short distance. Panting on the ground, he puffed himself up mentally, insisting to himself countless times that he had to stand for Arthur, and then rolled weakly into a stand.

"Right behind yo—" he started as be began to titter toward Arthur, but was cut off by his abruptly raised hand.

"_Shh_!"

Only the silence sounded as a result of the Prince's firm command. He stood, poised to run or strike at a seconds notice, and held his hand out as to signal his knights to hold their positions. The sound of fluttering leaves brushed by the afternoon breeze became the most prominent background music, for despite Arthur's indication that he had heard something, Merlin heard nothing at all. Nonetheless, he proceeded and created various incomprehensible hand gestures and motions which the knights somehow managed translated into commands. The capes clapped as they skittered around the forest, trying to be light footed but ultimately failing when the leaves refused to be silent when they were stepped on. And then they all heard what Arthur had heard.

It had begun small and hardly noticeable, and he had to commend Arthur for catching the slight tone while near everyone else had missed it. It was breathing. No, it was better described as _panting_, for no human could possibly produce so much breath at such loud a volume. It was like having a person with their lips pressed to your ears, wheezing after running hundreds of leagues. As said it had begun small, like the light panting of a man, but then it had escalated. The volume slowly ramped until an ugly hoarse wheezing took over the sweet melody of the wind, and then the big finale was an ear-splitting howl. The knights did not need Arthur's wild hand and finger gestures to command them to their positions. Shocked out of their skin by the beasts cry, the knights spread themselves equally among the small terrain that they held. The horses whinnied and clopped around trying to escape their reins in vein, for they had been securely strapped to near by branches and trees. Stealth was no longer the motive, not with a wild beast screaming, the horses whinnying for their lives, swords singing, and knights who abandoned the idea of being light footed and instead, stomped across the forest floor with such ferocity that Merlin could have mistaken them for a herd of elk.

And then a blur of color whisked several meters out before them. The man nearest stumbled backward with caution at the sudden movement, but by the time all eyes turned in that direction the same blur whisked passed them from behind. Fear was starting to bubble, Merlin could feel it. Of course he could feel it in his own gut too. He may have been a warlock who was destined for great things, but that didn't mean destiny did him the favor of ridding him of fear. Seeing his men begin to falter with emotion, Arthur closed in the circle more densely, until the nearest man was only a few lengths away.

"Prepare yourselves!" He commanded, his voice firm and controlled to filter out fear. Swords glistened under the light and bounced across the forest floor. One particularly large reflection seemed to be flickering and wavering as if its source was shaking in terror. No wait, on closer inspection it was not shaking, but approaching them. And on even closer inspection, Merlin saw that it was not a beam of reflected light but a beast, and it was set on a collision course with their small pile of men.

There should be little to fear when you had ten knights of Camelot by your side, except in this situation it was perfectly permissible to be frightened out of your mind, knights or no knights. Merlin threw himself to the ground as a blur of white rocketed over him. A storm of leaves dragged by the rapid pace of the beast plumed all around like a rainfall of dead little flakes. Several other knights had received the memo and had also grounded themselves, and each were now decently half buried in kicked up dirt and leaves. Unfortunately for those who had missed it, the beast certainly had not missed them, and it crashed into a poor lineup of fine men and scattered them across the forest floor. Armor rattled and agonized cries filled the air.

From his position on the ground (or rather, _in_ the ground, for he was so thoroughly covered in leaves that he could have been mistaken for being part of the forest floor), Merlin burst his head from the muck and dirt to suck in a rasping breath. His heart rate had rocketed in turn with his already labored breathing. In a moment of panic, he dared to kick off the curtain of leaves and swirled over onto his back, and to his great relief, was not greeted by the beast. While he was busy planted in the ground, the beast had sprang off several meters off, and with it the knights had followed behind bravely. That included Arthur. When the realization struck, the fatigue was sucked from his bones and manic strength mysteriously seeped to his little body just long enough for him to bolt off ground. Immediately disorientated by the drop in blood in his head, Merlin stumbled in a clumsy circle and surveyed three hundred and sixty degrees before finally locating the beast.

The beast was indeed a beast and was indeed as white as the daylight. The whiteness of its coloration bounced sunlight off its surface with such fierceness that Merlin was forced to squint. Its reflectivity sent rays of white light all across the forest floor with the aid of all the knights finely polished armor and their well sharpened swords. Speaking of the knights, several were cast around him having been taken out in the first wave of the attack, and the remaining ones were specks of red off in the distance. The beast itself was well labeled as such, as it appeared like a failed blend between a lion and a bird. It matched the massive size of giant wild boars, but at least a boar looked like a boar, for this creature had the general shape of a lion, but ugly patches of feathers replaced fur. No mighty mane of golden fluff encircled the beast's neck like a typical lion. Instead, flaky plumage that scattered with every step cluttered its face. Uneven patches of feathers and fur composed its only outer coverage. But what was most distinct about the creature was not its ugliness or the obviousness that it was conjured by magic, but by a necklace which is bore around its neck. A thin link of chains circled the beast's feathery mane, and upon it jingled an aged wooden plaque. Moss had claimed a hold on the little circular chunk of wood and made it more green than it was brown. Markings and lines were etched finely onto its surface and up close, a decorated design could be seen.

Now, it would have been impressive if Merlin had gleaned all that from a single short glance, but he had far from done that. Instead, he had been standing like a fool, mouth gaped open at the sight even though this was no where near the worst thing that he had ever encountered, and had not moved an inch since the thing first burst out upon them. In the distance some meters ahead of him, the amount of red had decreased and more red stained the ground. Arthur was among the few red blurs that remained fighting, struggling against the beast with his toothpick like weapon. He had been too busy fending for his life to notice the lack there of in Merlin, for the boy seemed all but dead already, standing in a frozen daze. The realization again managed to rouse him from his blankness of mind as his thoughts were revived. His previously empty mind was suddenly filled by panic. Looking up again, now Arthur was the only blur of red standing against the beast. Feathers plumed in every direction at it clawed, snapped, and lunged at him. To the relief of Arthur, it appeared that this particular beast was not invincible to ordinary weapons as some previous beasts had been, for they had managed to inflict noticeable damage to its frame. Flesh had been torn and punctured by their blades and deathly red gore flowed from its injuries. But it would not put up with this for long, as it finally turned a round black eye toward Merlin.

Perhaps it was a magical creature that hunted strategically in that it struck the weakest animal in a herd. Seeing that the meal before him was putting up quite a resistance while the gaping fool in the other direction was unarmed, it stripped its attention from Arthur and redirected itself at a defenseless Merlin. This was where the foreboding shadow that he had experienced earlier that morning proved its point.

Just as quickly as it had initially jumped at them, the beast cleared Arthur in a single leap and sprang with its ugly head first at Merlin. His first reaction was obvious. Heart pounding and breath racing, he struggled to keep from exploding from the increased internal blood flow that surged in his body. A cool seriousness washed over his expression as he eyed the oncoming beast, its massive paws leaving a trail of deep imprints behind it. He lifted his hand and his optics threatened to transform colors as the words of the old religion prepared to dance off his lips, but suddenly he was silenced. A raw heavy tugging yanked and pulled at his leg. It was the weight of his promise. It was the weight of the promise that he had sworn to Arthur, that he would never, no matter the situation, the consequences, or the stakes, ever use magic again. And now he would be bound to it.

The full force of the promise had yet to catch up to him until that very moment. The blow crashed into him just as how the beast has crashed into the knights. The force knocked the breath out of his lungs and squished the life out of his soul. He had promised to never use magic again. It was like promising to never _breathe_ again. Just like how humans needed to breathe to live, Merlin needed magic. He _needed_ it. It was not a want; it was a necessity. For the first time in his life he was bound to not use it not by law, but by his own word, and now it would cost him more than he had ever imagined that it might. Without it he felt so naked, so defenseless. His life meant nothing if it was lived without magic. _He_ was nothing without magic. Magic made him what he was, made him human, made him _Merlin_.

And Arthur would not let him be Merlin.

An odd calmness washed over the once-sorcerer. Stripped of his magic, he was no longer a sorcerer. No doubt that is what Arthur had wanted. He had wanted Merlin, his manservant, not Merlin, the sorcerer. And that is just what he got. With the beast thundering through the woods with its eyes dead set on Merlin, he had few choices to defend himself. Without magic he could not hope to fend the beast off or magically deter its path. With the speed at which it approached, trying to outrun it was as much a death wish as was remaining still. Diving to one side or the other could potentially save him an arm and a leg, but today Merlin would not run or hide. His eyes darted around in search of something, _anything_ with which to defend himself with, and they found a dropped spear at his feet that had been ripped from the hands of one of the fallen knights. Reacting on pure impulse, he swooped down and claimed its heavy weight in his hands. The spears head drooped toward the ground from the weight gathered in the metal of the blade and it was approximately the size of a toothpick relative to the size of the beast, but this was Merlin's decision, and his only plan of action.

Arthur, of course, was not in the least pleased by this. Sweat gleamed on his forehead and his hands were raw from the endless impact of his sword against meaty flesh that seemed to do not enough damage as one would expect. One by one he watched his worthy knights get thrown to the ground by a powerful slap by the beast's feathery paw. They were not dead but unconscious, but nonetheless they were rendered unable to fight further. This commenced until only he remained as the opponent against the beast. A lions head clouded with feathers glared down at him with black beady eyes and the wooden plaque swung around with its every movement. But as he had prepared for another violent strike, he received none. Instead, a gush of wind sent even more leaves and feathers aloft as the beast soared clear over him and began racing toward a new unknown target. That target was Merlin. He squinted through the scattered plumage and leaves and finally made out his fool for a servant standing in the path of the raging creature. He had expected to see the boy turn and run for dear life or dodge by rolling off to one side, but he did neither. Instead, he had remained completely unmoving besides the only action of taking up a fallen spear.

That was impossible. Was Merlin possibly thinking of taking on the beast? Not only was it a beast, but it was a magical beast. Merlin couldn't even fight off a man let alone a magically conjured creature. With every passing millisecond, Arthur waited for Merlin to break his stance and run off screaming like a girl, but every second that passed forced growing worry into his veins. Without his command his legs began moving on their own. It was first a walk, and then a trot, and then a full blown race as Arthur sped after the beast.

"Merlin!" he hollered over the wind that whizzed passed his ears. They reached Merlin's ears, but he did not respond.

"Merlin!" he yelled again, this time bordering a wail as the desperation in his tone began to dramatically escalate.

But the boy did not falter, did not shake, and did not fear—not even as the distance between him and the beast was closing rapidly. He heard Arthur shouting a barrage of his name, over and over again as if he cared. But it was his job to protect Arthur; not Arthur's job to protect him. Destiny had not written it that way. He concentrated every drop of strength that remained in him into his sticky arms as he hefted up the spear and prepared for impact. He would aim for the neck, and perhaps pierce it if possible. At the velocity that the beast was going at, he would not even have to throw it, as the speed of its own body would plunge the weapon deep into its flesh. The knights had already proved that it could be damaged—now let's see if it could be killed.

The distance grew smaller, and smaller, and smaller until—

"_Merlin!_"

The beast let out a cry of absolute anguish and agony. It stopped dead in its tracks and reared its ugly and front paws off the ground. Its head was thrown back and the beastly wailing continued. Its paws landed back on the forest floor with a thunderous thump and produced a mini-quake that kicked Merlin off his feet. He landed square on his back for the third time that day. The beast continued to cry and wither and flail above him, forcing Merlin to scramble backward and out of its line of fire. He kicked his legs and clawed with his elbows as his heart readied to jump out of his chest and his lungs prepared to implode on themselves. And then hell blew over.

A silent _crack_ silenced the wailing beast, and the chain which held the wooden plaque slipped from its neck. The creature sank noiselessly to the ground and then completely mute of sound, melted away into a pile of fur and feathers which the wind promptly carried away. The only thing of it that remained was the chained plaque, along with the spear that had pierced its neck and consequently the chain as well.

Once obscured by the beast that separated them, Arthur was revealed after the veil of plumage dissipated. In angry silence he paced over to where the creature was vanquished, belt over, and retrieved the spear which he had rocketed at it to ultimately slay it while its back had been turned and vulnerable. But with the winning weapon he merely tossed it aside into the dirt and continued on his course. There was only one destination at the end of his path, and it was Merlin. Every step radiated more and more rage. His steps became heavier, he kicked up more leaves, and he shook with such incomprehensible fury that he feared if he dared to break into a run, he would lose his step and trip. He wouldn't allow that, because he was dead set on getting to Merlin as quick as possible. And he did.

Merlin had blinked and the beast had been gone. He had blinked again and Arthur appeared. He blinked a third time and Arthur was right in his wake literally standing at his feet where he laid. Initially he was relieved, but the relief quickly reduced to fear. Arthur plunged his fist onto the collar of Merlin's tunic and ripped him up so furiously that his entire back left the ground. He gripped the article of clothing as if both their lives depended on it. They were so close. Their noses were practically brushing and they were literally breathing the same air. But the gesture was not at all intimate. Raw unabated anger boiled in Arthur's sky blue eyes. They pierced into Merlin's and locked him in place, forcing him to maintain eye contact and ensnarling him in his gaze.

"What the_ hell _was that—were you trying to get yourself _killed_?" he roared straight in the boys face. Anger fueled his veins instead of adrenaline and he fought to keep his voice from quivering. Merlin struggled with discomfort as the back of is tunic dug into his sore flesh. Weakly he brought one hand up and pawed at Arthur's powerful grip even though he had no hope of breaking it.

"I—I was going to fight it!" he managed to chock out, his breath shallow and wheezing due to the strain around his neck.

"No you weren't, Merlin, you were going to _die_!"

"Arthur I didn't have a _choice_!"

He was losing his battle with his rage. At first he had managed to squeeze words from his lungs without quaking as if he was a coward, but the more he spoke the less control he had, and the more his voice jittered with absolute fury. Before he could make another retort, he found that he was _shaking_. He shook his head wildly and shoved Merlin back down to the ground. Frustration now crowded in with his other boiling emotions. Didn't have a choice? What kind of joke was that? Of course he had a choice! He could have ran—he could have dodged!

But why didn't Merlin run? Why didn't he try to dodge it? Why didn't he…why didn't he… "Why didn't you use _magic_?" he hissed in complete desperation.

Merlin looked as if he had been slapped in the face. He was absolutely aghast. No, he was confused—he looked confused, disgusted, and helpless all at the same time. Only after the words left his lips did he realize the weight of what he just said. His own face froze in shock and he stared down at Merlin with terrified eyes. Magic was illegal. Not only was magic illegal, but Merlin had promised him that he would never use it again, no matter what the situation was, and he had held true to his promise by displaying that he wouldn't even use it to save his own life. Yet he had just questioned why Merlin hadn't used it. How could he even _think_ of turning to magic? How could he even come _close_ to believing that it was right to use if it meant saving the life of his manservant? But that promise was just a pain drunken slur of words that had unintentionally left his lips in desperation, wasn't it? He hadn't seriously meant it, had he? Arthur had thought nothing of it before, but now, now it was undeniable. Merlin had meant it. Arthur should be happy. He should be absolutely _overjoyed_. He should be basking in victory and glee in knowing that he had finally rid his manservant of his magic. Things could return to normal again. They could be manservant and Prince again. They could forget everything that had happened in the weeks passed and live life as it was meant to be lived. But he wasn't happy. He wasn't satisfied and he wasn't joyous at the revelation. He was left in a pit of confusion even deeper than before. He could only continue to stare down at Merlin, looking weaker than he had ever looked before in his life, lost in absolute, and complete, confusion.

Before either could utter another move, a painful groan from one of the fallen knights threw reality back into their faces. Arthur continued to breathe down at Merlin and Merlin back up to him, until he realized that they could no longer continue with this conversation. In silence he removed his grasp on Merlin's wrinkled collar and rose back to a stand, but not before seeing the circular wooden plaque which had previously been dangling around the neck of the vanquished beast. It laid in a bed of leaves at Merlin's side, and he pocketed it without so much as another glance at the boy. After the brief moment that they accidentally slipped into their roles as the abused and the abuser, both were quick to seek refuge back in their roles as Prince and manservant.

Here and there the defeated knights were beginning to weakly stumble back onto their feet. Those who were able enough aided the injured and wobbled over to the horses to begin the long trek home. They had, fortunately, been without casualty, but had they not escaped serious injury. The party was forced to make a stop in the town, which was more than happy to provide the little treatment they had upon hearing that they had been ridded of the mysterious beast. Basic treatments were applied to keep the knights well enough to survive the ride back to the castle, as Arthur intended to return home by nightfall. With speed and luck, they did. The sky was dotted with white specks against black by the time they stampeded through the castle gates. They were welcomed warmly upon returning and the injured knights were shipped off one by one for repair.

Arthur had been among the list of knights who had sustained injury, but not so much that it was life threatening, but not so shallow as to not worry about it either. They had hurried up to his bedchambers in order to address the wound, which was a bloody gash across the meaty flesh of his shoulder. Merlin was seemingly only ever useful in a time of Arthur's need, and every other time he was a blundering fool, for despite his obvious fatigue and completely drained coordination, he had managed to strip Arthur of his armor and mail without inflicting further pain on his wound. All that was left was the red tunic beneath, which Merlin had insisted they keep on in order to reduce the amount of times Arthur would have to lift his arms and thus abuse his injured shoulder. The cloth around his shoulder was stained a deeper red that bordered brown from the fresh blood that oozed from the injury and the crusty blood that had already dried. With a knife, Merlin hacked at the sleeve of the tunic until the shoulder beneath was completely in view. Besides, it didn't matter what he did to the tunic since he would be the one to repair it later anyway.

Looking at the wound now he saw that it looked far more serious than it really was. He dabbed at it cautiously with a clean rag with a fresh pale of water at his side, but his concern for Arthur's sensation of pain read off toward the Prince quiet differently.

"Oh don't be such a _girl_, Merlin, it's just a scratch," he scoffed, moving to lean back on his bed against his good arm. Merlin only ignored him and concentrated on addressing the injury.

"Well it's a pretty big scratch," he muttered, giving the wound another dab.

The final swab had rid the 'scratch' of the blood that clouded it before, and without so much red obscuring his view it did indeed look like a scratch. The claw of the beast had not gone deep, which was good news for Arthur in that no muscle or ligaments were damaged. It was merely superficial and only the epidermal surface had been torn away, leaving sensitive pink tissue exposed beneath. Nonetheless it must have nicked a vessel on account of the excessive bleeding.

"We should go see Gaius about this," he suggested while binding the now cleaned wound with another clean white rag. Not once did he take his eyes off the gruesome gash.

"For what, a scratch like this? We'd be wasting his time—and not everyone has as much free time on their hands as you." He flashed Merlin a snobby sneer and then turned to break his wounded arm free of Merlin's pawing grasp, only to regret doing so immediately after. Pain that had just been a dull ache transformed into a sharp burn with the sudden movement, and it showed on his face.

"You can never be sure about these things, you know," Merlin said with an exaggerated knowing look. "We wouldn't want the crown Prince of Camelot to die from a scratch now would we?" This time Merlin threw in his own infamous cheery grin, which Arthur returned with a punch to his forearm with his good arm. Merlin won that battle.

He practically led the reluctant Arthur by the sleeve down to Gaius' chamber, but upon entering, found that the court physician was missing. A passing servant informed them that he had been rushed to attend to the more badly wounded knights and was not expected to return for a number of hours later for the cases were particularly dire. For this Arthur had given Merlin another triumphant look that Merlin rolled his eyes at.

"We can still get some treatment," he added in his own defense.

He abandoned Arthur among the sea of books and bottles as he dove into the shelves. He had worked for Gaius long enough to know at least what basic ointments he used to treat battle wounds, which he did very frequently so there would be plenty of it. Merlin fingered through the bottles and potions with only the light of a single candle to guide him. The darkness hindered his search in obscuring the handwritten labels, many of which were either faded or peeling from the bottle, and dragged on his search far longer than intended. It went on so long that Arthur had turned to flipping through some of Gaius' various books to pass the time, which really actually wasn't taking that long—he was just a highly impatient man when it came to Merlin. But he failed to rush his manservant with a command, for he took notice to the small rickety door in the far back of the room. With Merlin engrossed in his unfruitful search, Arthur found himself wondering through the maze of towering books and medical supplies as an excuse to draw closer and closer to the back room, otherwise known to be Merlin's bedchamber. Soon he found himself right at the door step, and then his hand was upon the handle, and then he was inside the small room.

Small didn't cut it. The room was _puny_ compared to Arthur's luxurious suite that could probably contain several of Merlin's room within it. But it was Merlin's room. It was where he slept, where he stayed, where he was at home and at ease. This was where he would return to, but he had come within an inch of not being able to today. That's right—he had damn near killed himself against the beast in the afternoon and now brushed off the topic like it was nothing. It wasn't nothing. It was definitely something if you came so close to dying. Fury started to boil in him again. He was growing sick of this. He was growing sick of having sudden pangs of anger like some adolescent female. He wasn't an adolescent anymore and he was most definitely not a female, so why did his emotions rage out of control so often? Just one thought, one measly topic could throw his mind into turmoil. That one topic was Merlin. He heard the clanging and shifting of glass bottles through the door behind him as Merlin continued on his quest to find some kind of treatment. He brought his hand up to his injured shoulder and pressed against the bandaged wound. This was proof that the Merlin now was the Merlin that he wanted. It was a Merlin who treated him of his injury; it was a Merlin who was his manservant and no more. And with the promise he had made the previous day, the part of him that was Merlin was sorcerer was no more. _So why wasn't he rejoicing yet?_ He had his old Merlin back, but there was not a shred of happiness to be found within him.

He managed to muffle a frustrated hiss as he brought up his good arm to scratch viciously at his golden locks. Deep heavy breaths escaped his lips as he tried to physically pamper away his worries by continuously combing his fingers through his hair and then rubbing his pounding temples. Nothing could abate his storm of emotions, though. This was indeed the Merlin that he wanted, but it wasn't the Merlin that Merlin was. No matter what, it seemed that he would not be able to attain an adequate Merlin. So if he could not attain him mentally, then he would attain him physically instead. Just then, his manservant's voice sounded through the door.

"Oh, here it is! I've got it Arthur!" he chimed with a silly grin played on his lips. He whirled around in victory to display a decently sized jar of a transparent jelly substance which he clutched triumphantly in his grip, but as he expected to behold an impatiently fuming Arthur, he saw no one. Only old books and more shelves of more bottles greeted him.

"…Arthur?" he called out, this time more wearily. What, had the young prat ran out the door without him? If Arthur had the right to call him a girl, than Merlin had the right to call him a child, because only children ran away when they have to see the physician. But as he scoured the room in search for a trace of the Prince, he found the door to his room cracked open just a tad. Great—he had gone to go harass the few personal belongings that he owned. With a frustrated shake of his head and a sigh, Merlin snaked his way to the little room.

"Arthur, what are you doing in there? I've got the ointment so let's go—" He was cut off when he nearly charged into the wounded man. The bulk of Arthur's form took up the entirety of Merlin's tiny doorframe. He looked up at the little intrusion and sucked in the sight of Merlin's startled expression. He was clearly unsettled by having Arthur in his room, and it took no genius to deduct it. Under the faint glow of the candle that flickered on and off in the other room, Merlin was white as a sheet. Only a sliver of light was allowed entry into the room through his tiny square window that was nested in the upper half of his bedchamber. The blue illumination cast deep shadows across nearly everything, including their faces. Merlin was indeed squeamish at having Arthur in his room, his (somewhat) private chamber, his one and only safe heaven. But Arthur was like a shark. He could sniff out fear and could snap you in his jaws just by tracing the trail it left, and he had certainly sniffed out Merlin.

Awkward silence hung between them as they stood intimately near each other. Arthur had only gone so far into Merlin's room as the entrance and had stepped no further in, and Merlin was right outside the frame, which left but inches of space to separate them. Merlin let out an awkward cough to shatter the silence of the night and he raised the jar of ointment for Arthur to see.

"I've got it," he repeated, giving the jar a little shake as if proof of its realness was needed before he turned to lead the way back out of his and Gaius' room. But the damage had been done. He could not hope to mask the fear that he felt which was enhanced ever so much by Arthur's presence in his room. Arthur had already found him out, and he was entirely ready to exploit the new found weakness.

"Give it here," he snapped and swiped the cylindrical jar from Merlin's pathetically weak grip. As he had deducted, the boy swirled around to reclaim it, only to be caught by Arthur's powerful arm that had lost no strength despite its injury. With a strong pull he yanked Merlin into the room and the two switched places. Now it was Merlin who was within the boundaries of his room and Arthur who was at the doorframe, guarding the only way in and out. Panic began to well inside Merlin. He knew, oh _god_ he knew what was going to happen. The repeated happenings had dulled his reaction to it, but not under these circumstances. The rickety door creaked shut behind Arthur as he sprang into action.

"Arthur...Arthur?" The boy stammered with growing panic. Once again Merlin was swept off his feet by the raw force and power that the Prince radiated. Sometimes Arthur had physically overpowered him, but other times the shear authority that he displayed was enough to crush his hopes of escape. Before sense could make its way to his brain, he was already pinned beneath Arthur's strong frame upon his own bed. Everything was familiar—the scent of the room, the texture of the blankets, the hardness of the lousy bedding. Panic began to spread again.

"Arthur please—wait!" No, this was his one and only safe haven, the one place where he could be himself and be at ease and be free from Arthur's relentless abuse. He had already taken magic from him, and now he would take his security away as well. Forced onto his stomach he felt the coldness of the night air brush against the bareness of his back as Arthur pulled up his tunic. His panic was spilling over in a boiling mess and he flailed and clawed in desperation.

"Arthur! Your…your shoulder!" Merlin managed to rasp between frantic breathes, but this managed to put a slight pause to Arthur's movements. "You're injured so—so _I'll do it today_!" He immediately regretted his words. He felt sick, sick as if he had just spewed the most revolting nonsense known to man. He felt sick that it sounded as if he was willing, but it was as close to escape as he could get. He latched onto this tiny string of hope and clung onto it for dear life, wishing and pleading that it would take him out and into the distant light.

Arthur had indeed stopped and was now taking into account the reason behind Merlin's suggestion. True enough his shoulder pained him from the movement and it would surely distract from the pleasure that would come from below, so for once, he conceded to Merlin's plan.

"Then get on with it," he snarled.

Merlin felt the weight of the Prince lift off his delicate frame. The bed sank at the side where Arthur resettled himself down again. His bed was small—far smaller than Arthur's. Merlin was sprawled on the surface with his face buried in the stiff pillow just the way Arthur had left him, and by all means he would try to avoid keeping true to his word, but he knew that Arthur was prone to change his mind. So before he could get the chance to, Merlin scrambled off the bed and onto the hard ground at the Prince's feet. He was quivering, both from the cold of the night as well as from terror. He was going to do this, in his room, not knowing when Gaius would return. _Gaius._ A final desperate attempt at escape found its way into Merlin's mind as he perked his head up with a frantic glow in his eyes.

"What if Gaius comes back? We could go back to your chamber or—"

"Here is fine."

His tiny thread of hope snapped, sending Merlin plunging down into an abyss of despair. He looked up hard at Arthur. The blue glow of the room painted his face a glistening white. He looked like he was near death with the now very prominent dark rings around his eyes and the hollowness of his cheeks. His expression had been reduced to a somber stare and his lips were pressed into an emotionless flat line. This was going to happen, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. It happened.

It wasn't until several days later that the slaying of the beast was celebrated. There had been far too many scampering around with wet towels and fresh bandages for Arthur to even reach the vicinity of his father. But alas, with his shoulder tightly bound and thoroughly coated in the jelly that Merlin had salvaged in Gaius' chamber (which he must admit was very effective), congratulation's had been exchanged between father and son and Arthur had been sent on his way. Yet now the King sat upon his royal throne, eyes cast downward and a deep shadow masking his face. He stared down with his piercing glare at the round plaque in his hands. He ran his large rough fingertips over the little bumps and ridges of the aged surface, taking into account every bush of moss and every cracked corner as he thoroughly examined the item. He turned it and he flipped it, he knocked it against the table and he picked at the chipping edges. Finally, he conceded that there was nothing visibly out of the ordinary about the seemingly insignificant disk of wood, but he would not be King if such a petty disguise could throw him. It was magical, that was certain.

"Gaius, come have a lot at this and tell me what you think," he commanded, still eyeing the wood in his grasp. Not even as Gaius hobbled toward him and as he began to extend the plaque out did he release his gaze upon it. It was as if he distrusted the inanimate object, as if it would spring to life and do him harm if he did not watch it carefully. Either way it left the security of his hands when the elderly man retrieved it with a polite bow. He watched his court physician give the item an initial glance before fumbling with a pair of spectacles to enhance his aging vision. Heavy silence hanged in the throne room. All were awaiting the physicians report, for it would determine whether Uther lost or retained his sense. If the item proved to be ordinary, then the day would pass as it was meant to. If the item proved to be magical, however, all knew that Uther would fly into a manic rage and throw his one and only (now wounded) son back out into the battlefield to trace its origins to the ends of the earth. It would, unfortunately, turn out to be the latter.

"I can't be certain, sire, but—" Gaius took his eyes off the piece to rest them on the King and braced himself for the impact that his next words would bring. "—this may be medium used in the art of summoning."

The words came to Uther like a blow from battle. He even shrank away deeper into the comfort of his throne as if to stay as far away from Gaius' declaration as possible. His expression twisted in disgust and he hooked a solid grip onto the armrest of his seat. Looking at his court, he cast the order which they had all anticipated as well as feared.

"Then we must find the source of this sorcery, and we must vanquish it for the sake of all of Camelot."

* * *

**A/N:** I was gonna add another _explicit _scene but then decided not to, lol.


	5. Chapter 5: At What Cost

**Chapter 5: At What Cost **

Swords sang all around him and metal banged against metal before his eyes, but all he saw was the dark shadow of Merlin's face illuminated with terror. He saw him fight against gagging on the thickness that he held snug between his lips. He saw the horribly uneven rise and fall of his head as he hollowed his cheeks to bring Arthur to completion. He saw him desperately evade contact with anything within his room, including his sheets, covers, and little furnishing, and isolate himself to only a small patch of wooden floor beside the bed. But he had not seen his eyes, for Merlin had cast his gaze in any direction but his. The boy could not look at him—could not even acknowledge his presence in the room except for through the service he provided with his mouth. And now, karma was coming back to inflict the same disability on Arthur, for the great Pendragon himself could not bring himself to lay eyes on any of his many gallant knights.

Standing in still silence on the training grounds, he was surrounded by the familiar musky aroma of hard work and sweat. Swords clashed all around, whether it was against a live opponent or an unfortunate inanimate substitute. Polished chainmail glistened under the suns heavy rays and scattered a spotted sea of white across the flakey yellowing grass, but Arthur could not engross himself with the training as he usually could. At that moment, he felt distinctly like a stranger among his men. He felt like the single black sheep among a pure herd of white. He felt disgusting.

What had he done? What utterly putrid act did he commit in a blind fit of rage? He had committed the ultimate disgrace in violating a man in the place where he should have felt the most safe. One had a right to feel at complete ease and secure in their own home. Of all the places upon the earth, if every mountain is split and if every field is burned, there would still be one location where hell could not touch, and that was ones home. Yet Arthur had stripped that right away from Merlin. He had taken away his last security and his final sanctuary and turned it into another fiery pit of hell. The ugly form of self-disgust which had burrowed in his chest had evolved. It had grown and matured and now sported a whole arsenal of weapons. It bore its razor-like teeth and brandished furious claws. A destructive tail of steel waved at its behind and a row of polished spikes lined its back. And with all its destructive power at hand, it began its rampage. It made Arthur ashamed to stand among his knights who stood by the code of honor and dignity. The honor and pride that shined so bright around him had become blindingly white while his own white had diminished into a deep satin black. He had no honor. He had no dignity. He was a coward and a fool, and this he knew, but would never, ever, admit.

"Sire?"

The Prince shook his head and let his glossy blond strands sweep off in one direction. He tucked away his secret musings and arrived back in the real world. He once again saw his team of knights training away their mornings. Clanking and clattering reached his ears at deafening volume, and the heat of the sun returned to battering his heavily layered figure.

"Sir Leon," he greeted with a slight incline of his head, "Is there a problem?" Sir Leon was a knight among knights and his valor was without challenge. He returned the Prince's greeting with a polite incline as well, although he swept down far lower with his eyes aimed at the grass at his feet instead of copying Arthur's measly head duck. His curtain of brown locks were swept by his movement and bounced with their well groomed waviness. The beast of guilt within Arthur's chest threw a heavy punch as he gazed at what true honor and nobility looked like, but he fought to wrangle it and managed to uphold a serious thoughtful expression.

"Not at all, Sire. I just wanted to inform you that we shall be ready to depart by noon," was the answer. Oh, that's right. They had yet another assignment to complete by the decree of Uther. He didn't know what shamed him more; feeling the pangs of guilt for his crimes or forgetting a direct order from his father and King. Both were fatal blows to what was left of his honor and dignity. He mustered a weak flustered cough and muttered, "of course," before quickly brushing away the subject.

Reaching back into his memory, he hunted for the little bits and pieces of the early morning hours. He made sure to step around all mention of Merlin. Alas, he was able to avoid further feeding the beast of guilt and finally located the memory which he required. Ah, it was all coming back to him now. When Uther had sent word to Arthur that he wished for an attendance, Arthur had actually been anticipating the request. Before he had even set foot within the throne room it was clear in his mind what the exchange of words and commands would be. As he had predicted (with notable accuracy), Uther had dispatched him to locate the sorcerer who had conjured the white beast that had been previously slain. However, this was no ordinary task. Sources indicated that it was not one sorcerer whom he would be looking for, but several. It was apparently an entire group of renegade sorcerer's who had the sole and clique desire to bring about the down fall of the throne. A grave expression had been painted onto Uther's hard face and he glared daggers into his son.

"They call themselves the _Altair_," he'd declared while leaning back into his luxurious throne. "I want you to find them, Arthur, and bring them proper punishment." In other words, execute them in cold blood. But he had accepted the order without hesitance. He had killed sorcerers before and this occasion would be no different. _Except that it was._ He attempted to imagine himself plunging his sword into his enemy and splattering the red of his blood in triumph, but each and every time the imaginary scenario flashed before his eyes, every time he tried to create the face of his anonymous enemy, it was Merlin's face that appeared.

"If I may, Sire," an old rusty voice interjected. It came from none other then the loyal court physician, Gaius. The elderly man had practically merged into the background and had gone completely unnoticed until he peeled off the wall and made his presence known. When a signal of approval came from Uther, he wobbled away from his usual position by the strong pillars and brought himself before the King. "I do advise that you handle this situation with extreme caution, for I fear that these sorcerers may not be quite like the others whom you have dealt with before in the past," he croaked while passing a genuinely concerned look up to Uther. Arthur had seen the thought process blow through the King's mind. He watched him first formulate a reaction and decide whether to be offended by the comment or to pursue more information out of the old man. He had, to Arthur's personal relief, chosen the latter.

"What do you mean, Gaius?" the King demanded. He had stiffened in his chair and left his previous restful position upon it. As he usually did when something was brought to his attention, he stopped bracing his chin against his fist and shifted himself so that he was centered atop his throne and then leaned the slightest bit closer to his subjects below him. Gaius pressed his bony wrinkled hands together and crossed them in his front.

"The medallion that Arthur retrieved from the beast…I believe I have seen the markings on it before." He'd paused here. By now Gaius had been well aware of the King's tendencies to avoid hearing that which he had either no interest in or that which he disbelieved, therefore he had learned to not immediately jump to his conclusions and instead slowly built to them to ensure that Uther listened to his entire plea. He continued. "It is the signature of a sorcerer by the name of _Markab_." Uther stared down at his trusted friend and ally. Once again Arthur had been able to practically see the thoughts surge in his father's brain. His lips had been tightly pressed together and he leaned back onto his palm and elbow against the arm rest again.

"And I suppose he is a dangerous man?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Then that is all the more reason to find this _Altair_ and destroy them."

"Sire I—" He raised his hand in a simple but powerful gesture that was enough to immediately silence Gaius.

"Gaius, I thank you for your concern, but where is no enemy which we," he had looked up at Arthur here, "cannot defeat. Altair cannot be allowed to continue their magical practices, and it is my duty to see to it that they don't."

With that, he had sent off the small audience and returned to his Kingly musings, or whatever it was that he did when Arthur was busy risking his life for the sake of his kingdom. But to be perfectly honest, he shared his father's confidence in their ability to eradicate threats. It was not that he did not want to heed Gaius' word, which he very much respected, but he simply did not feel the same concern as the old man did. Instead, he was concerned about something entirely different. He was preparing to slay a sorcerer. He was preparing to slay someone of Merlin's kind. It had stuck him that Merlin had never flinched or hesitated when pitted against a magical opponent. He had blindly followed behind his Prince and accepted nearly every harsh punishment that was inflicted upon sorcerers (although Arthur knew not of the many times when Merlin was _not_ idle in such matters). But no, he was not concerned about Merlin either. Rather, he was concerned with himself. Again he tried to play a practice run of the event in his mind. He watched his sword dance with grace and powerful elegance as he sliced through his opponents and brought them to their knees. But still, the faces of said opponents were always Merlin, and over and over again in his mind, he cut down his manservant without fail. That thought was more frightening than any other.

"Sire?" Oh, it was Sir Leon again. The familiar voice pulled Arthur from his maze of memories and brought him back to the present time.

"My apologies; I was merely thinking," he remarked to the knight as an excuse for the utterly blank expression that he had been wearing for a tad bit too long now. In search for a quick escape off the topic, he looked up at the blazing sun overhead and then judged that noon was fast approaching. He then gave the field before him a long sweeping glance. "Gather the men. It's near time for our departure so—" his gaze fell on something particularly peculiar, causing him to cut himself off. In stark contrast to the smudges of silver and crimson that symbolized the knights, he spotted a pathetic little dot of red and blue. The little smear was like a squeaky wheel of a wagon as it preformed poorly with inelegant and ungraceful swings of a blade against an inanimate foe while the rest of the figures were dancing their finest. Leon traced his gaze down the field. He passed a clutter of other knights, battered red and white targets, and pseudo-opponents until he located the little blur that Arthur was tracking. Both squinted, and then realized that it was performing so poorly because it was not a knight, but Merlin. A brief glance between the two knights was exchanged, in which Leon's only response to Arthur's quizzical stare was an innocent shrug. And so with determination written all over his face, Arthur stomped across the field, weaved between fighting men, and dodged incoming barrages of daggers until he reached the lone figure that was facing off against a straw dummy. Sadly so, it appeared as if his manservant was losing the battle.

Merlin had made the decision to practice in an art which he had previously only scarcely considered, but now it seemed like the only possible route for him to take. He had been faced with the cold truth that Arthur had, once and for all, stripped him of his right to magic. Even as the days passed the emptiness in his chest had failed to fill back up. The chilling hole that the promise had eaten out would remain, and there was no hope of patching the damage that had been done. And so he had attempted to remain optimistic as he always was. If he could not use magic to protect Arthur, then he would use a sword to do so instead. Therefore, instead of observing the training of the knights, he had opted to participate, yet at that moment it felt as if his attempts had done more harm than good.

Every time he swung his sword at the inanimate foe, another pang of agony struck the emptiness in this chest and reminded him of his promise. Not only that, but the strain was wearing on him physically. Gaius had practically had to drag him from his covers that morning, and the morning before, and the morning before that. Even when he managed to drag himself to the table, the weight of the small wooden spoon felt like too much for his weak grip, and he could not find the strength to lift it to his pale lips. Currently, the sword sank like an anchor in his grasp and threatened to sink Merlin to the ground. He bore no armor and no mail, yet it felt as if thousands of pounds of metal were stacked upon his back and layers and layers of clothes were baking him under the sun. Every strike against the hay dummy before him came weak and slow and could not kill a rabbit even if it was standing completely still. He was tired. He was so tired.

"_Merlin_! What _are_ you doing?" With a jolt, he looked up at the source of the voice and struggled to muster what was left of his composure. It was Arthur. He watched as Arthur glided over the grass with the ease and the conviction of a man who knew exactly where he was going. Close behind him followed Sir Leon.

"I'm ah, I'm just practicing," he answered with an unabashed smile. Previously he had been drooped against this sword, leaning against the handle with the blade dug into the dirt in order to support his weight. Upon Arthur's arrival, he had wobbled off the support of the sword and pulled it from the ground to give it a little shake as if to prove that he was practicing, or at least trying to, for instead of ripping it from the clutches of the ground in one clean motion as he had intended, he met resistance and stumbled to keep his footing. Even more to his dismay, as he tried to produce his signature silly grin, he found himself only able to lift the corners of his lips ever so slightly as to make the faintest and weakest of smiles. But Arthur had noticed no abnormality except for the fact that a sword was in his manservant's hands.

"For what? A fight with a rabbit?" he retorted, looking more spectacle of Merlin than ever. He gave the boy a quick up-to-down glance. Merlin, wielding a sword? Now that was just _comical_! Why on earth would he need such a thing? He'd seen him return a few swings when it came down to a moment of desperation, but he never knew him to be capable of anything more than sword play that couldn't harm a child. No, that was wrong. He had seen Merlin fight one other way. For a single shocking moment, Arthur was once again ripped away from the grasp of reality and thrown into his boiling pool of memories. He recalled their encounter with the white beast and Merlin's determination to take it head on, but before he could fall deeper into the memory, Merlin's snarky response pulled him back into perspective.

"Well if that's what you train your knights to fight against, then I don't see why I shouldn't do the same as them! After all, I've got to, you know, _protect_ you." Although his lines had been snappy, his tone had not been in the slightest. Weakness found its way into his voice and Merlin had finally reduced to leaning against this sword again. Or course, Arthur heard only the retort and ignored all else.

"Well then, _Mer_lin, if you want to be trained like a knight so bad, then why don't I _help_ you?" he jeered. From the corner of his eye he could make out a faint smile playing over Leon's lips. Not even his knight among knights could deny the amusement that could be gained at the cost of Merlin's pride. He had brought a hand up to his mouth in order to smother a snicker. Somewhat encouraged by this, Arthur crossed over to his manservant while visually hunting for something to victimize him with. His eyes landed on an unused shield that was basking under the heat of the sun. "Take this," he ordered with a wicked sneer as he picked up the bent metal and shoved it into Merlin's hands. "I'll teach you how to protect yourself against a _rabbit_."

"Rabbits don't have swords, Arthur,"

"Shut up—this one does."

"No really I don't think—"

"Merlin, what did I just say?"

"Arthur I—"

"_Pick. It. Up_."

He obeyed. The Prince hefted his weapon and let it do a fanciful spin in his grip as he began to pace a circle around his manservant. Arthur was not at all the rabbit, but a rabid wolf. Merlin better fit the position of a rabbit as he quivered under Arthur's scrutinizing gaze. He struggled to get a firm grip on the shield and struggled just as hard to keep it from sinking him to the dirt. The combined weight of the sword in one hand and the shield in another forced his weakened knees to bend. But there was no turning back now. Leon had approved of Arthur's arbitrary act of cruelty by backing away to give him space. Using the room provided, Arthur paced several intimidating steps and then charged at Merlin with a furious lash. The sword came down upon the shield with an earsplitting _clang_, and the blow resonated down the metal and into his brittle arm. The addition of pain to his fatigue overflowed his strained senses. As the impact came, his head spun and his breathing rocketed. His overworked lungs desperately pumped in order to suck in more air that he craved, but each breath failed to bring him relief. It was as if he was being chocked off from precious oxygen which hazed his mind and clouded his brain. A second blow came down upon the shield and sent another shock wave through his entire aching body. His knee's buckled and he tittered to remain upright. He gritted his teeth until his gums turned white and held his composure until both his arms burned like fire from the depths of hell. He could not even open his mouth to create words when a third strike came from Arthur. The third strike was the final one, because after that everything went black.

To Arthur, the blows had been near nothing. He had been stabbed at, slashed at, and beaten at more times than he cared to recall, and he was without a doubt sure that he could take his own blows without weakness. But Merlin was not him, and the boy had fallen after only the third strike. His knees gave out and he crashed to the ground in a heap. Sprawled ungracefully on his side, somewhere along the way he had discarded the sword and it now laid in the grass beside him. The shield covered part of him defensively even as he fell, and it was nested over him like a blanket. Arthur swung his sword up with a playful twirl and rested it on his armored shoulder, but then conceded that Merlin had had enough and returned the weapon to its sheath. He waited for his manservant to shake off the impacts and scamper back onto his feet like he usually did, but he remained idle on the ground.

"Come on, Merlin, don't be such a girl," he scoffed. The body remained limp. "Oh get up already. I didn't hit you that hard," he mocked again, this time with a tint of irritation in his tone. He still received no response as Merlin remained still in a bed of crispy grass. Worry slowly began to trickle into his irritation as he edged several steps closer to the boy. Similar concern flashed across Leon's face when Arthur knelt down to give Merlin a physical nudge. "Merlin?" Taking his bony shoulder in his hand, he gave him a firm shake, and then finally rolled him off his side and onto his back, revealing Merlin in a frozen unconscious state.

"_Merlin!_"

* * *

Delicate silence hung in the heavy air around them. Even the slightest of sounds threatened to shatter it, so each and every figure cluttered in the room reduced their volume to the bare minimum of breathing. Gaius ran his rough wrinkled hands across the ridges and dips of Merlin's face, searching for signs of disease or fever. His palm came to rest on the boys pale forehead.

"Will he be ok?" The first to break the silence was Guinevere. Her meek caring voice dared to penetrate the noiselessness, yet all eyes remained attached to Merlin's limp form.

"Oh he'll be quite fine in no time, Gwen, there's no need to worry," the court physician replied with a comforting smile. He was seated on a stool at the side of Merlin's bed, on which Merlin himself laid in a stillness that too much resembled death. His paleness was highlighted by the whiteness of white sheets which he practically blended into, but at least his breathing had been relieved to soft and easy huffs. For the first time in a long time, he actually appeared peaceful. Gaius had been all too aware of Merlin's recent unease in his sleep. He'd often heard the rustling of sheets and covers as he tossed and turned throughout the night, but now he was allowed to be in a tranquil state, unbothered by outside disturbances in his lack of consciousness. "He's merely tired. A few good nights of sleep and healthy meals will do him well," Gaius assured as he rose from the stool, thus making way for Guinevere to seize the opportunity to plant herself beside one of her dearest companions. She nipped at her lower lip and her bright eyes dipped in concern despite Gaius' words.

"Oh Gaius, what's happened to him? I knew that he hasn't been doing well lately but I never imagined that this would happen," she fretted as she stroked Merlin's white cheek in guilty concern. She had noticed yet she had failed to take action. Similar guilt resonated within the old man as he stood at the bedside. He placed his hand upon Guinevere's delicate shoulder and gave it a light reassuring squeeze, even though he felt the same amount of concern as she.

If Gaius and Guinevere were guilty, than what Arthur was feeling could not be described with the English vocabulary. He hadn't been doing well lately? That was news to him, yet Guinevere and Gaius wallowed in guilt as if they saw this day coming but did nothing to prevent it. He had never once noticed any abnormality within his manservant. Day in day out he had missed the boys increased mistakes and stumbling and the excessive difficulty that it took for him to perform seemingly menial jobs. He had been blind to everything, but it wasn't that he had missed those obvious details; he had opted to ignore them. Another head of the emotional hydra sprouted and began to wreak havoc in his heart. A blind man could tell that Merlin was weakening, and Arthur wasn't even blind, but he had _chosen_ upon his own disgusting will to be blind to the signs of his abuse. Another pang of guilt surged through his nerves. _He_ was the cause of Merlin's fatigue. _He_ was the cause of his physical downfall. _He_ had driven Merlin so far into a corner that the pain spilled from his mind and into his body, and finally his body could no longer contain the hurt either and ultimately broke down into oblivion. He pressed his fingertips to his aching templates and then ran his hand down the side of his face in frustration. That was not the end of his worries.

Gaius was the equivalent of a father to Merlin and as far as he knew, was the closest thing to a father that the boy ever had. Such a bond had surely dissolved the need for holding secrets. Although Arthur had silently threatened Merlin to hold the secret of their interactions at the cost of his own life, Merlin had proved countless times that he weighed Gaius' life with as much, or more, value as his own. It was a true possibility that he had confessed his hurt to his mentor. Arthur sucked in a sharp breath at this thought. He feared for himself, for Merlin, for everything. He waited in painful silence for Gaius to respond to Guinevere, but the old mans response was relievingly simple.

"I'm afraid that I haven't the slightest," he sighed. "This was not brought on by any disease that I know of; I believe it can only be the cause of fatigue or stress." Arthur exhaled a long breath when he examined Gaius' ignorant expression. He didn't know. At first he was relived. And then he was disgusted with himself again. Merlin was bedridden and he was sighing in relief over his own well being. He had reached an entirely new level of low, and had he not been in a tiny room crowded with people, he would have buried his hands in his face to hide his ugliness from the world. But he could not be released of conviction just yet.

Guinevere had instinctively shot a brief glance up at Arthur. Fatigue and stress pointed fingers toward the Prince, whom everyone knew threw more than Merlin's fair share of work upon him. He even felt the timid gaze of Sir Leon hit the back of his neck from behind. He felt a sudden urge to be defensive now. All fingers were pointed at him and rightfully so, yet nonetheless he felt the need to divert the blame away from himself. He had to hide from the truth, from the conviction. Arthur suddenly surged into irked fidgeting and danced from foot to foot in a small circle around himself.

"I _didn't_ hit him that hard," he spat, turning his back on the cold scene and walking toward the door. He paused before reaching it and expelled another long frustrated breath. "Just—just _fix_ him!" he demanded, abruptly turning around to face the crowd of worried faces. "We have to leave soon…" That's right; they had an assignment to do. They had to get ready soon so if his useless manservant wasn't up right that moment they'd have to—

"Pardon me, Sire, but Merlin _needs_ rest. He shouldn't come with us." Arthur whirled around to catch Sir Leon, concern also painted on his face. But along with concern he looked puzzled, puzzled at Arthur. Arthur had just suggested hauling Merlin along with them even though he had just fallen unconscious, and even if he awakened a battlefield was no place for a newly recovered man. By the time his brain caught up with his mouth, the words had already spilled and Arthur couldn't find an explanation for why he'd considered such a thing. Had it become so normal to have Merlin at his side that not even sickness could prevent him from being there? The boy had always sprang back up again no matter how many blows he took or what kind of crisis he had landed himself in, so had Arthur simply expected that he'd bounce right back up out of his coma-like state and skip with them off to hunt sorcerers? Merlin had become such an integrated part of his life, and he had been blind to it until it was stripped from him. He felt naked under the sea of worried stares. He felt the need to run away, to hide himself somewhere where they couldn't see and judge him. He took in a sharp breath and could only manage to turn himself awkwardly away from the situation.

"…of course, you have my apologies," was his weak response that he partially hid with a cough. There was no safe place for him to look. He could not look at the concerned faces in the room. He could not bring himself to look anywhere near Merlin. He could not even look at what little furnishing was in the room for it reminded him vividly of the crime that he had committed in the very same location. All he could do was cast his eyes downward at his own feet and shuffle around uncomfortably. Another long bout of silence held firm in the air until it was Leon who took the liberty to break it this time. He'd crept closer to Arthur and, respectful of the resting Merlin, leaned in with his hand guarding his mouth and whispered so faintly into Arthur's ear.

"We should be departing now, Sire," he reminded. Arthur stood in place with one arm crossed and another propped up so his hand met his chin in a thoughtful posture. He allowed himself one glance up at his manservant before conceding that today, he would be missing from his side when they rode out. He gave a silent nod to Leon in approval and then waved the knight off. Before departing himself, Arthur drifted over to Gaius and gave him a soft pat on the shoulder.

"Take care of him, Gaius," he muttered, and then escaped the morbid scene.

As morbid at things seemed, Merlin was nowhere near death. He was merely unconscious and had crumbled under fatigue and stress. He hadn't been stricken by some strange life threatening disease and he hadn't been struck down in battle either, yet a dark worry hung over his companions nonetheless, for they knew that even if the cause for his collapse was not a strange disease, something else strange had caused it. Something mysterious and completely hidden from them had eaten away at their friend, who had said not a word to a soul, and the mysteriousness shrouding his collapse did little to set their minds at ease.

While Guinevere and Gaius were wallowing in their insecurities, Arthur had little choice but to completely push away his. He was going out to defend his kingdom, and he could not afford to be distracted from the task of dire importance. Greens and browns of the scenery whisked by him at blinding speed as his stallion sprinted through the forest. Heavy hoofs smashed against the ground and following the clops of his own horse, the thunderous steps of several others quickly followed behind. He was backed by a whole arsenal of his knights as a blur of bright red streaked through the green of the forest. He turned his head a fraction to catch a glimpse of who was by his side, but to his disappointment for the nth time, saw no one. Only a blur of trees and woods greeted his eyes. He saw no idiotically smiling manservant with his ugly red or blue neckerchief which he routinely coordinated with his red or blue shirt. The space at his side was empty, and he knew all too well why. A sudden flicker of motion caught his eye.

With a light rustle of leaves and a tiny blur of motion, a wooden arrow lurched out from a bush and impaled itself into a side of one of the many stampeding horses. The animal whinnied in agony, jolted from the impact, and lost its footing, carrying its massive figure to the ground along with its unfortunate rider. But that was not the end result of a single arrow. As the knights were so tightly compacted together, the single fallen horse managed to take down with it two others until a pile of tangled limbs and hoofs obscured the path. Those who had been in the head of the pack had managed to escape the devastating crash at the rear of the group, but the event immediately evoked alarm. The other horses bucked and jerked to abrupt stops at the sight of their fallen comrades. Another blur darted through the air and instead of impaling a horse, forced its way through mail and cloth and buried itself into the soft flesh of a knight. That was the final straw. The remaining knights threw themselves off their steeds and ripped their swords from their sheaths. The weapons sang in glorious harmony of impending death as they were brandished at their invisible enemy.

"Show yourself"! Arthur barked, turning this way and that way, his eyes darting around wildly in search of their assailant, which he had no doubt belonged to _Altair_. The small bundle of knights clustered in close together and followed his example, never stopping once in their incessant turning and jittering in all directions as to never leave their backs exposed for long. Their efforts were no longer necessary, though, once their attacker, or rather, attackers, abandoned their anonymity and burst forth from the bushes. They made little to no sound as they did so. Contrary to rabid bandits and violence-crazed brutes who hollered their lungs dry on the battlefield, the attackers slipped from the bushes without so much as a single peep. They flew gracefully over the forest bed as if their feet never hit the ground and only evoked sound when the dried leaves were disturbed by their long dragging cloaks. Bellowing silky black cloaks guarded their exteriors and shrouded their figures in mystery. Deep shadows were cast over their faces by the satin black hoods and made only a tiny sliver of their faces visible. The fullness of the cloaks successfully obscured the bulk of their bodies, revealing only their arms and hands which clutched their swords. Arthur rather wished that their hands were also obscured, because it they were it would mean that they weren't brandishing weapons, but that could not be further from what was truly occurring. With frightening skill and precision, the cloaked figures slashed and stabbed at the knights. It was one for one as there was nearly perfectly one knight for one assailant. But the playing field could not have been further from equal.

Metal crashed against metal and only the sound of hoarse breathing filled up the air. It was as if both parties respected the tranquil nature of the wondrous forest where blood would inevitably be shed, and so to compensate for tarnishing it with red, they decided not to stain it further with their barbaric cries. Either way, Arthur did not have the luxury of speech as he faced off against his opponent. Skillful swings came at him back and forth, up and down, left to right, from all around. He returned each blow with a masterfully planted swing of his own, slashing and hacking away to batter and wear away at the enemy. He spared himself a split second to scan the rest of the battlefield. Blurs of red were battling smudges of black, but it would appear that the red was winning. They were forcing down the black and the red was creeping ever closer to victory. Perhaps his opponent sensed his swelling confidence, for the moment Arthur felt the battle had been won, the sense of victory was torn away from under him.

The purity of the sustained silence was shattered by a low hissing of gibberish, of words that were incomprehensible to Arthur's ears. Even if he could not understand them, they knew exactly what they were doing. A burning ball of fiery red exploded within the grasp of one of the cloaked figures. The energy raged with blood lust and when released from the owners grasp, surged into the air as a violent projectile that smashed itself into the bulk of a knight wide-eyed with terror. Another knight met his untimely end as he was blown back with the force of being run down by a carriage ten times over, all done at the hands of seemingly thin air. The former delicate silence of the forest air was soon filled with nonsensical mumbling and anguished cries of agony. When Arthur did a second sweep, he was alarmed to find that the amount of black had swallowed the small dots of red rapidly. This was indeed Altair, and they were unmistakably sorcerers. With little to no choice, he threw himself away from the range of his opponent and burst shamelessly into a run.

"Fall back!" he commanded with a note of desperation in his tone. They could not fight against magic, not head on, and he would not see his knight's fall one by one. Even as his order had reached the few remaining ears, it was not in tandem, as each knight had been squared off by his own enemy. With no way to regroup, the remaining dots of red scattered in whatever direction they could. Arthur himself flew over roots and leaves and hacked away at branches that obscured his escape route. He had to create distance. He had to gain the upper ground and prepare himself. He needed to gain some kind of—_any _kind of—advantage in order to combat a sorcerer. Gaius had been right. Gaius had been _so_ right. These sorcerers were like none other whom he had combated before. Most used measly magic that a sword could beat or preferred enchantments over the direct use of magic in combat, but these sorcerers were not as conservative. They used their magic—their magic _was_ their weapon, and it was a weapon that could defeat a sword any day. With this in mind he ran blindly deeper and deeper into the forest, further and further away from his knights, and closer and closer to his demise.

* * *

A soft groan and rustling of sheets roused Gaius from his work. He blinked up from the bubbling contents of a flask which he held pinched carefully between metal tongs. Lost in his work and the unusual silence, had had nearly forgotten that he was not alone. When he recalled the reason for just why he was not, he set the burning flask down with haste, not caring that its boiling heat would damage the table top, and cast away the tongs and let them clink and clatter among his other metallic tools. He hobbled up the small flight of stairs and through the small door frame of Merlin's bedchamber, but caught his composure before making the mistake of bursting in abruptly. Instead, he lightly eased open the old rickety door and poked his head inside. He saw the rather unfamiliar sight of Merlin sprawled on the bed in the middle of the day, for usually at this time he would be scampering at the heels of the Prince. Gaius would much have preferred that he was, since that would mean he wasn't collapsed from some ultimately unknown cause.

"Merlin?" he tried softly, testing the waters to see if the boy had finally been roused to consciousness. When Merlin gave another weak groan and dragged his hands up to rub the sleep from his fluttering eyes, Gaius took it as a cue to enter. A smile found its way to his lips in seeing his mentee finally waken.

"Gaius…?" His voice came out weak and groggy with sleep as if he had just woken from a terribly long slumber, which he kind of had.

"So you're finally awake," the old man joked with a light hearted chuckle. He paced over to Merlin's side and hovered over him protectively. Energy began to creep back into his limbs visibly as Merlin twitched here and there, testing out his stiff muscles and giving his body a test drive before fully trying to function with it. When he declared that he was all in one piece and working order, he propped himself up onto his elbows, and when he found there was still spare energy left over, moved to sit up straight in his bed. A blatantly confused expression rested on his face as he peered around his room and then noticed the blazing sun of high noon that spilled brilliant rays through his tiny window. Gaius made to fill in the gaps for him.

"Ah, I suppose you wouldn't recall, but you collapsed, Merlin." Merlin's blurry-eyed look was immediately stripped from his face. He _did_ recall. He remembered all too well the fatigue that ate away at him until he could no longer will himself on. Freshly awakened and still dulled by weakness, he could only weakly try to hide his knowing by looking off to one side and bringing his hand up to cover his mouth as he gave a timid cough. When he realized the utter weakness of his facade, he tried to cover it with a joke.

"Oh, well, Arthur must have been furious," he muttered while fingering the knots out of his black strands. After all, it was the middle of the day and his useless manservant was snug in bed while the Prince was left to fend for himself. He threw in his signature silly grin as part of his impeccable facade package and muffled another cough to quickly escape the subject lest Gaius question the cause of his untimely collapse. "Speaking of Arthur, where is he now? I should probably get going or he'll—"

"He's already left." Gaius looked down at him, grave and stern.

"Already left? To where—when?" He already had one leg swung over the side of the bed and was seemingly ready to spring out of its comforts at a seconds notice. Confusion and alarm registered on his face when he realized that he was, for once, not at Arthur's side when danger was potentially around every corner. He forgot Arthur's abuses, he forgot why he had fallen unconscious, and he remembered only that Arthur was in danger. He looked up at Gaius with his boyish eyes, waiting and pleading for an answer, but was returned by the concerned look in the old mans gaze. No, he looked almost _sympathetic_.

"Merlin," he started, leaning in closer to the boy with worry in his eyes. "You've been unconscious for nearly a day now. Arthur left _yesterday_ in search of Altair under Uther's orders." That was the final push that Merlin needed. The day of sleep explained where most of his fatigue had disappeared to, but that certainly did not mean he had been released from all his aches and pains. They had only subsided to a dull pang every now and then, but he pushed them all aside and burst off the bed. He scattered the thin covers away from him and threw himself over the side. Hands went flying here and there as he grabbed at his clothes in a crazed incoherent manner, first ripping off the white night shirt and then throwing on his raggedy blue tunic at nearly the same time. Brown coat was donned, neckerchief was tied, and boots were laced in a flurry.

"Gaius I've _got_ to go after him; you said so yourself that they were dangerous and—and that _Markab_ who summoned the white creature—that was powerful magic that Arthur can't possibly—"

He already had one foot out the door when Gaius suddenly caught him.

"_Merlin!_"

He looked back only to find the old man beaming with worry and concern. An internal battle raged inside him as to whether to let Merlin go or cling onto him for dear life. He knew that Arthur was in perpetual danger; the life of the Once and Future King was at stake. But so was Merlin's. How could he send out the weak little boy to a raging battlefield of sorcerers and swords, especially in this condition? Even though he had earned a single day of rest, the effect of many sleepless nights and skipped meals still showed prominently on his face. The heavy rings beneath his eyes had not subsided in the slightest and no matter how hard Merlin attempted to mask his physical weakness, it was made all the more evident when he had fumbled wildly with his clothing in desperation. It would either be Merlin or Arthur; the safety of both could not be guaranteed.

Merlin stared back at him, knowing all too well what was going through Gaius' wise mind. He nipped at his lower lip and fidgeted with the sleeve of his tunic. He was more aware than anyone of the danger that he would be plunging himself into, but he also knew better than anyone that he could never be more willing to place himself in that peril if it meant coming to the aid of his Prince. At that moment is mattered little what Arthur had done to him. They seemed like such distant memories when now faced with the fresh looming sense of danger. Perhaps Gaius as well knew of Merlin's silent conviction and thus resigned the arguments that he had lined up in his mind. Instead, he spoke a single considerate line before letting his assistant go.

"Be careful."

And Merlin left.

* * *

**A/N:** Just a random note, the names Altair and Markab are both the names of stars. Altair is in the constellation Aquila, and Markab is in the constellation Pegasus. I totally stole them since I can't come up with names myself lol.

Also, thank you very much for the reviews! I really appreciate them, and they really motivate me to keep writing this!

Ah, one more thing! I'm going on vacation over the summer so updates will be less regular, sorry! My internet access will be limited but I'll keep writing. It's just a matter of uploading them. So thank you to those of you who are following this patiently! -East


	6. Chapter 6: Death of the Heart

**A/N:** Warning:-Crappy battle scene ahead.

* * *

**Chapter 6: Death of the Heart**

His breathing was labored, his legs burned like fire, and his sword weighed like a thousand pounds in his hand, but still he did not stop running. Now, we should make it perfectly clear that he was actually _not_ running away, for Prince's did not run away. Instead, he was merely making a tactical retreat from a wholly unfair battle, and it was very much wholly unfair. His blue eyes darted in every possible direction, searching and hunting for any advantage to claim, yet he came across absolutely nothing. He saw nothing that could possibly aid him against the forces of magic. No weapon, no trap, no strategy could pit him against an entire group of supernatural beings without it ending with his emanate death. But Arthur was not a man to give up no matter how hopeless a situation may seem.

He finally felt that he had distanced himself enough and allowed himself to slow to a stop. His boots crunched against dirt and branches that unfortunately left a distinct trail, but in seeing that no dark hooded figures were charging at him, he could only hope that they had abandoned the pursuit. His coarse breathing filled the air and was only accompanied by the flutter of birds and occasional moan of some wild animal. Nothing else sounded. That to him was both good and bad, for it meant that there were indeed no pursuers, or at least none near by, but that also meant his knights were nowhere within the vicinity either. His grip on his sword tightened until his knuckles whitened under the thick dark gloves.

He only knew what he saw, and he saw that magic was only used for wicked means. He saw magic slay his knights and he saw magic be wielded as a weapon against himself. However, he also saw Merlin. He saw Merlin's boyish grin and his idiotic failures as a manservant. He saw his friend, his ally, his companion, a _sorcerer_. Fresh confusion seized Arthur's mind as he battled the contradictions. He could no longer making sweeping judgments such as that all magic was evil, for Merlin was not, _was_ _he?_ Or perhaps all magic was indeed evil and the boy had been merely fooling him all these years? Or…or…or—

Before Arthur could plunge any deeper into the mental chaos of his mind, a rustling of the bushes pulled him back into the present situation. He tried to flush out his worries and close his mind to hesitation as he wielded his sword and crouched like a beast awaiting its prey, only in this situation, he was the prey. Out of seemingly nowhere came a flutter of a silky black cloak and then the shine of a sword. The blade came down upon him with furious velocity and met his own blade with fierce impact. A quaking shiver resonated through the blade and up his arm and invaded his body all in a single swoop. Another slash came just as viciously, and then another, and then another. Arthur threw himself into the arms of battle as he clashed for his life. His blade went this way and his opponents went that way, each clashing and stabbing and cutting and swinging. There was something distinctly different about this man. Like all the other Altair members he had encountered just a short time ago, he was shrouded by the mystery of a dragging black clock. Only his arms were made visible when they jabbed at Arthur with the sword, and occasionally the clock would flutter open to reveal very standard attire beneath. A dark shadow ran across his face thanks to the hood and revealed only a square chin, thin lips, and the light stubble of black facial hair. Nonetheless this man was different. He fought with a conviction like none of the other hooded men he had seen before. Each swing was planted for a reason. Determination and motivation backed each and every movement. He fought like a leader, like a king, like someone who knew exactly what he was doing and why.

And then there was Arthur, drowning in his confusion over the concept of magic. He was facing a sorcerer no doubt, yet he was untouched by magic as of yet. No matter how he tried to reject his insecurities they kept on springing back up and sent hesitation into his swings. It would cost him. He returned a stab with a powerful upward swing of his blade that ran so close to his opponents face that it would have sliced his nose in half had he not evaded in the last second. Alas, Arthur's blade had caught the very tip of the black hood, tearing a small slit at its top. But with his hands positioned in the air and unstopped by the momentum of his swing, the sorcerer shouldered into his torso and sent the Prince to the ground. Air flew from his lungs as he hit the forest floor hard upon his back, rasping and gasping for precious air, but before he could scramble for his fallen sword or even twitch to right himself, he was met with a sword to his chest. The sharpened tip of his opponent's blade rested triumphantly upon his chest, threatening to plunge in at any second. With hardened eyes Arthur glared up at the man who now stood over him in mocking victory. For the first time he saw the entirety of his opponents face, for he had removed the hood on account of the slit that Arthur had sliced in it.

The man had already surpassed his youth but had yet to reach an elderly stage. Wispy strands of thick black hair sat unattractively upon his head and were tied back in a messy ponytail, its full length reaching just at the ridge of his shoulder blades. Dark stubble dotted his face like a man who did not have the luxury to self groom, like a man who was too busy on the run or constantly relocating. An ugly winding tattoo was etched into the ridges and valleys of his face and crawled from his right brow down the entire right side of his face. However, despite his various prominent features, what struck Arthur was most was the coldness of his eyes. Two dark, beady, optics glared down at him with the hatred of a man who had suffered much under injustice. The conviction that glowed on the dark surfaces told Arthur that he would have no trouble and feel no guilt over plunging the sword just several inches lower to take his life. He swallowed hard at his pitiful position.

"_Markab_…" he crocked, for he was sure that that was the man who stood above him.

"Arthur Pendragon," he responded, his voice a low raspy whisper as if he hadn't drunken water in days.

Both men locked eyes in a heated battle of wills. If Arthur was to die here, he would like to die with pride and honor having fought for his kingdom, but that certainly did not mean he wanted to die. His pride had been crushed as this man had defeated him at the one thing he did best, sword play. In a final attempt to die with pride, he dared to speak again.

"You used magic," he half questioned half stated. Part of him hoped that the answer would be 'yes'. It would restore his pride, but more than that, it would settle the raging mental battle that he was fighting. If he was to die at the hand of magic, then it would be proven that magic was evil. He would die knowing that his father had been right all along, that all magic was evil and there were no exceptions. As for Merlin, well, Merlin wouldn't matter much to him when Arthur was dead. It wouldn't matter anymore. Nothing would matter anymore. But his opponent would not even give him the luxury of dying with his pride restored.

"No," he whispered, "I don't even need magic to kill you." And then he lifted his sword and let it fall.

Arthur met no pain. He felt not a pinch, not a sting, not a single touch as Markab's sword was met by another's. Blurry with an adrenaline rush, Arthur whipped his head up, only to find not one sword crossed above him but two. One pushed down with every ounce of power it could muster in order to slay the Prince, and the other held firm protectively to save the Prince's life. He followed the length of the struggling blade down to the handle, down to the delicate hands that gripped it, down to the dirty brown sleeves that needed washing, up to the ugly red neckerchief that was awfully out of fashion, and then finally up to the face of his manservant. His first reaction was, of course, ungrateful bewilderment.

"_Merlin? _What the—"

"Not right now Arthur I'm a bit busy here," Merlin breathed, still making room for jokes even when Arthur was literally inches away from death. He couldn't help it. He couldn't help smiling. He couldn't help joking. He couldn't help being utterly gleeful to see Arthur alive. In the moment of blinding joy, he forgot all the wrongs that had been done to him, and fought for Arthur's life.

It was a damn shame that Merlin's definition of fighting wasn't quite as manly as Arthur's though.

One forceful swing upward forced Markab's sword up and away from Arthur's vicinity, allowing him to tumble out of the line of fire, but that was just about the extent of Merlin's epic battle. The moment the opponent caught Merlin in his headlights instead of Arthur, Merlin abandoned his sword, replaced it with a handful of sand and dirt, and cast it in a very cowardly fashion toward Markab. The little specks of irritants caught his eyes and airways and resulted in annoyingly painful stinging and the compulsive need to rub his eyes clean of the intrusions, obscuring him just long enough for Merlin to take back up his sword, hook an arm around Arthur, and then proceed to run like hell. A man who could defeat Arthur was not a man to be reckoned with, and this Merlin knew so well that he had decided, screw pride and the knights code; he wasn't a knight, and his pride had already been obliterated anyway. And so he made do with the classic sand-in-the-eyes and ran like the wind. Eventually he would learn that they had actually not escaped Markab; Markab had let them escape. He would, however, never learn that he himself was the cause of Arthur's loss.

Markab stood coughing and wheezing and swearing in a fit over the loss of his prey, but he had defeated Arthur once, and a second time would be eminent. He watched them scramble through the woods and stumble over roots until the thickness of the trees hid them from his view. When he could no longer see them, he departed to reunite with his remaining loyal followers, and was greeted by a bundle of black hooded men. With a silent jerk of his head, the command was read and two black figures peeled away from the group, heads hung, faces shrouded, and swords gleaming.

Meanwhile, the Prince and his manservant had not ceased to run until they could almost literally run no further. The two sought refuge in a small dip in the earth where the trees crowded around high and heavy boulders made for walls. The tiny valley served as a suitable location for them to stay hidden. Breathless and wheezing for air, Merlin threw himself against the security of the rock wall behind him. Arthur did the same, bracing one hand against the cold surface to prop himself up while he gasped for breath. Their lungs were swamped with the duty of supplying air thus there was no room for speaking. Cautious silence shrouded them both. Actually, it was not their lack of breath that kept them from speaking.

The moment their minds were put at ease by their supposed safety, other thoughts quickly began to flood them. The silence between them was a result of their speechlessness. What was to be said to one another? Merlin had just collapsed no thanks to Arthur's repeated ordeals with him but the boy had come to his rescue nonetheless. Should he thank him? Ask him of his condition? Chastise him for putting himself in danger? Similar thoughts echoed through Merlin's mind. He had just saved a man who had done nothing but ruin his life, yet that hadn't stopped him from blindly throwing himself in danger for Arthur. Should he laugh at him? Make another joke? Inquire about the situation? The silence persisted until not even their heavy breathing was an issue any longer. The silence was just silent, devoid of any sound or peep. Both men went with their third choices.

"Just now, was that—was that Markab?" Merlin questioned, taking a second to shake off the residuals of his breathlessness as he dabbed the glistening sweat off his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

"It was, but that's none of your concern since you shouldn't even _be_ here right now," Arthur snapped.

His blade had been impaled into the dirt previously while he had been too busy gulping for air to even wield it, but now he tore it up from the earth and ensnarled it in a hard vice grip. He couldn't afford to be caught off guard a second time. He couldn't afford to _lose_ a second time. Squeezing the hilt until his knuckles burned white, Arthur swore to himself that the second time they clashed for be the last, and he could make sure to fight without a mental burden hanging over him which had caused his loss in the first place. He then looked up at the cause of said mental burden. Merlin had removed himself from the security of the wall of boulders and was now just hovering beside it, still not daring to venture too far from it should any enemies be near by. He craned his neck to peer up over the edges and scout out as much as he could see from the small dip in the earth that they resided in, and when he was content that no one was near by, dropped his gaze back down to be level with Arthur's. It had been a day and a half since Arthur had departed Camelot, and the same day and a half since Merlin had collapsed. The rest he must have gotten had done him well. Some fleshy color had returned to his previously white cheeks so now he looked a little more alive than dead. He held himself strong and didn't look like the breeze could knock him down, but considering the situation that they were in, that might have just been the effects of adrenaline.

He blinked. Arthur blinked and looked at up his manservant again. He looked at the sword in his hand that had saved his life and the looked at the man who wielded it. The knowing that Merlin had just clearly saved him finally dawned and sent off an explosion of thoughts. He suddenly wanted to inquire about his health, to ask him how he was doing, to take him by the shoulders and demand whether or not he was well enough to be running around swinging a sword. Having been shamefully blind toward Merlin's condition for weeks on end, Arthur suddenly felt the compulsive need to be aware of it now, to know everything that there was to know. Guilt that he had long put off was finally released and came rushing at him without mercy.

Why he had not been struck by this flood of remorse earlier was a mystery to none but himself. One only feels guilt and remorse when they are aware of their wrong doings, however if you are not aware of said wrong doings, then why feel any guilt if you have done nothing wrong? Of course, that was not to say that Arthur felt like his actions toward Merlin were correct; merely, he had justified them by repeating over and over again that Merlin was a sorcerer, thus making his actions somewhat more acceptable. However, that excuse would not be sufficient to blockade the flood of emotions that were rushing him now. Not only had Merlin's facade been too perfect (in front of all the right people), but in the few times where his mask was cracked, Arthur had been blind to it. The powerful sedative known as denial blinded him to all of the ailments that began to riddle the boy after the repeated abuse. But Arthur had deliberately, and desperately, avoided witnessing any of the effects that he had on him, for if he did, than it would only prove without a doubt that his actions were wrong. Nonetheless, denial could not mask the truth forever. It could not hide what it had hidden so long when Arthur had witnessed Merlin's collapse. It could not hide that Arthur had damaged him, or that it was truly only the fault of his own. He could no longer claim to be blind to negativities that he had inflicted. And so, upon seeing Merlin's inevitable collapse, his limp bony body, his pale sunken face sucked of its life, the wrong doings had made themselves known, and so had the guilt and remorse that followed it.

Arthur was pacing now, and doing so furiously. He appeared as if he was either critically contemplating their next move or utterly furious that Merlin had come to his rescue, but neither were correct. He stomped back and force along the stone wall of the dip in the earth. He grasped his sword in one hand and rubbed his aching temples with the other. The guilt was clawing away at him, eating away at what was left of his blackened soul, and driving nail after nail into his mind. Now that the guilt had finally set in, confusion quickly followed after. The extra feeling threatened to tip over the delicately balanced pot that already contained a fearsome concoction of emotions. _Why_ was he feeling guilty? Since _when_ had Merlin become so crippled? _How_ had he never noticed until the moment he collapsed? Maybe if he had known he would have gone easier on him. Maybe he wouldn't have been as hard as he had been. Maybe…maybe he would have just _stopped_ the entire ordeal!

That thought shook him. Would he have? Would he have ceased his abuses if he had seen the destructive effects that they were having on Merlin? or better yet, would he stop now?

Just as he began to explore that thought, a second one jetted in. The irremovable thorn that was buried deep in his heart as a result of his mothers death forced upon his mind another thought which with to counter his existing one. He was inflicting pain on Merlin, but Merlin was a sorcerer. All his life he had been warned against sorcerers and sorcery, yet he might as well have also known Merlin for all his life—that was just how strangely attached he had gotten to the boy. The two thoughts raged war in his mind. They yanked him this way and that, trying to win his affection in deciding which was right. His head spun, his heart thumped, his airways grew tight. The battle would rip him apart. It would reduce his mind to mush and a wasteland like he had seen physical wars do. He had to escape. He had to run away like his very life depended on it, and now he feared that it did. He had too…he had too—

"You know, you can at least _pretend_ to look happy that I saved your life."

A sudden cease-fire was called and he whipped his head up to catch Merlin in his gaze. He had nearly forgotten that the boy was there, but Merlin had certainly not forgotten him. In fact, he had been staring at Arthur intently for quite some time now. He had watched him stomp back and forth with the malice of a murderer and emit an aura that was just the same. For a while, true worry had begun to grip Merlin. Of course Arthur wouldn't have been happy to see him, but he didn't have to wear such a dire face. Yet Merlin did not read into what he was truly thinking. He held tight onto their roles as Prince and manservant and pondered only what could be bothering Arthur as a Prince. Arthur desperately followed Merlin's lead and sought refuge in their sacred roles of Prince and manservant. He would go back to being Arthur, Prince of Camelot, and reject his other despicable role in Merlin's life. Yes, he would be safe as a Prince. He would be safe, Merlin would be fine, and everything would be blissfully ok.

He gave a quick shake of his head and ran his free hand through the tangled knots of his hair.

"Don't ask for the impossible, _Mer_lin," he snorted. The transition between his two roles was thankfully swift. Seconds ago he had been wallowing in a pit of confusion and despair, but the second he dove into his role as Prince, he was alleviated of the violent war that raged within him. A soothing chill blew through him when he looked upon Merlin. He saw Merlin, his manservant, not Merlin the sorcerer. And in seeing that, he was finally allowed to put his mind at ease. What followed, of course, would be the routine spat between Prince and manservant.

"Well it was worth a try!" Merlin let out with an unabashed grin. He shrugged his shoulders and let his arms float off his sides a bit before clapping them back down to his thighs in mock submission. He had apparently forgotten about the sword in his hand, though, as it flopped loosely (and very dangerous) in his grip as he did so.

"Oh give me that, you look absolutely ridiculous," Arthur retorted with a ting of irritation in his tone. He directed his stomping over to Merlin and snatched the weapon from his careless grip. It looked like all of the boys sword fighting knowledge had drained from him after making one epic swing that saved Arthur's life, because now he looked like he was carrying around a very creative toy. He made sure to ram the butt of the hilt into the back of Merlin's head as he moved back to his side of their little burrow.

"Oww—hey what if I'll need that?" By now the back of Merlin's head was definitely toughened by calluses considering all the times that some hard object (of Arthur's fist) had assaulted it, but he brought his hands up to rub the impact zone anyway.

"You wont," Arthur called back, his voice dimming slightly as he began to part himself from the safe zone. "We're heading back to Camelot."

Before the Prince had the chance to escape his view, Merlin trotted off after him right at his heels like a loyal hound. Just as he brought himself up to pace, he nearly immediately felt the side effects of his recent rapid movements. Just as his breathing had settled after the escape from Markab, the ache in his lungs flared up again. His breathing did not count as labored, but it certainly wasn't restful either despite their relatively slow pace. Merlin took note of this, along with the steadily returning soreness in his limbs. He made a motion for his sword, which Arthur held in one hand while he held his own in his other. He was doubly and unnecessarily armed with two weapons, one which he had confiscated from Merlin, but did not return it and instead slid it into his unoccupied sheath.

Now, it would have been far more logical to just return it. Arthur could do without the extra weight to lug around and more importantly, Merlin would have something to defend himself with should they encounter anymore enemies on their return. But something compelled him to withhold the weapon from him. No, it wasn't a matter of trust. Seeing Merlin armed roused something within his mind that immediately shot him back to their battle in the woods with the white beast. No, the feeling that was roused within him was _fear_. He feared what might become of Merlin if the boy thought he was well armed enough to charge into impossibly dangerous situations. He feared what doom the weapon might suck him into. So he kept the weapon tucked safely in his sheath, keeping it well away from Merlin's grasp.

When Merlin realized he wouldn't be getting his weapon back, he gave another loud mock sigh of defeat. That was the end of his argument after he caught a glimpse of Arthur's dismal expression. He wasn't one to salt a wound if it would really hurt, and he knew that Arthur's would. It hadn't taken long for Merlin to notice the lack of red bellowing caps. At first he had assumed that the knights had been scattered since when he had come upon Arthur, he was alone. And then he transitioned to thinking that they were all dead. And finally with Arthur's declaration of their return to Camelot, he concluded that his second assumption was accurate. If there was one thing he would give the Prince credit for, it would be his genuine compassion for his allies, which was ironic since little to his knowledge, Arthur was keeping his sword from him with the intention of protecting him (which seemed very much counterintuitive). Either way, he and his knights had been pathetically unprepared for their lost battle, and now the loss would hang over his head. So Merlin kept quiet and prepared for a silent trek back for home.

It would be far from quiet.

Just as they cleared the ditch and ventured into the flatness of the forest floor, two bellowing black cloaks greeted them with eerie noiseless precision. They exploded from the blind spot created by the high mounted boulders that supposedly kept them safe. The situation couldn't be further from desirable. Unarmed, Merlin was caught in the sights of one of the two hooded men while the other claimed the only other target, Arthur.

"Arthur!" The name slipped protectively but unintentionally from his lips but seemed to be interrupted by the two bodies that separated them.

"Get back!" Arthur ordered as he flailed one arm toward Merlin, only hoping that he would see it. By 'get back', he really meant 'run away'. Get back from the situation, detach yourself, and flee. Merlin would do no such thing. He charged blindly at the man who obscured his way and hefted a fallen tree branch as his only defense. He couldn't even get close.

"_Astrice_!"

His breath was forced out, stars twinkled in his eyes, and pain sheered his front side as an invisible force rammed into him. He was thrown back like a rag doll by the command of the old religion and the triumphantly extended hand of the black hooded man. Only the bottom half of his face and his outstretched arm were visible while the rest of him was made invisible by the black hooded cloak, but Merlin could swear that a grin played on the slim lips. He knew, _they_ knew, that the two flailing prey would be no match for magic. Apparently they did not have the same ideal as Markab and decided to forgo being conservative—magic was meant to be used and it would be. The battle was impossible, and this Merlin knew. They had lost the moment the old religion had sided with their opponents. The thought was soothing, calming almost, when it first came. It was a twisted relief to know that he would finally be put out of his misery and be allowed to die a hero's death. And then the pain hit him. Merlin was tossed into the air and thrown to the ground upon his back. A noiseless gasp was all he could muster in response to the burning pain and his sudden deprivation of air. Dead leaves and fallen branches did little to cushion his fall. He wheezed, gasped, and twitched on his back as the impact washed through him, but he didn't wait for any symptoms to subside. Pain had brought with it reality and expelled the soothing feeling that had invaded him for just one second. Arthur could not be allowed to die. He couldn't. The world blurred in Merlin's eyes and swirled in colorful arrangements as he willed himself to flop over to his front and somehow orientate himself to locate Arthur. He couldn't. The forest spun, the ground shook, the sky fell.

"Arthur!" he wailed, desperation quickly setting in. He received no response. "Arthur!" he tried again, now clawing at the dirt of the earth in a futile attempt to orientate himself. Even if he could see straight or stand up or swing a weapon, he was no match for two sorcerers, not in that condition. Not stripped of his own magic, not suffering from lingering fatigue, not like this. Somewhere in the distance he thought he saw him. His attacker had abandoned him and turned his sights onto Arthur who was surely the true target. One red blur and two black blurs mingled together and danced a wretched waltz on the forest floor. Tiny clinking of metal reached hiss ears which previously heard nothing, and then they escalated. The tiny clinking turned into mild banging, and then sharp clanking, and then wild ear splitting slashing as Arthur clashed with his two opponents. He saw them. He saw them now. Disarmed on his hands and knees, Merlin whipped his head around and smeared his foggy eyes as he willed himself to see. And he finally did, but what he saw burned fear into his optics.

Struggling on the ground was Arthur, pinned down by the arms of one of the two hooded men. Vines had ensnarled his legs and bound them to the forest floor and some other force had impaled both his swords harmlessly into the dirt. It was the work of magic, no doubt. He could just make out a darker shade of red that stained his mail and red tunic that blotched out a portion of his shoulder. It was his old shoulder wound. It must have reopened and was now freely soaking through his layers of protection. But most frightening of all, Merlin watched wide eyed with terror as the second hooded man crept closer and closer to Arthur, armed with a sword that could end his life. He scrambled to stand but his legs refused to obey. Terror, desperation, and rage bubbled within him all at once.

"Stop—please don't—" The hooded man stood above Arthur.

"Don't do it—" He raised the weapon.

"Arthur—" The sword loomed high in the air.

"_Arthur!_" The sword fell.

Merlin was a liar. It was impossible for him to forget the words that he had uttered to Arthur when he was broken and defeated on the ground. He could not use forgetfulness as an excuse. He had sworn that no matter the situation, the consequences, or what was at stake, he would never use magic again. But there was always an exception to the rule. There was a situation, a consequence, and something at stake that Merlin would bend his rule and break his promise for. That was Arthur. Arthur was more important than any promise, any oath, and any rule that Merlin could be bound by. Arthur _was_ the one and only rule, and it was the only one that Merlin would follow without fail. So he abandoned all else and adhered to the only law the governed his life. The birds stopped singing. The wind stopped blowing. The sword stopped falling.

The once sky blue eyes flashed gold.

"_Forþ fleoge_!"

Both the sword and its wielder were turned into projectiles as another invisible force cast them into the air. This particular force wasn't as forgiving as it had been with Merlin, though. Instead of a flop, it pounded the sorcerer and flung his body parallel to the earth at a deadly speed. He barely had time to wail or scream as he collided sideways into the sturdy trunk of a tree. The soft flesh of his body was no match for the firmly rooted strength of the tree, and a terrifying _crack_ sounded when his neck and shoulders made contract with the rough surface. His head was whipped back by the impact along with the rest of his lower body as they followed the law of physicals until his back was bent into an impossible angle. His ruined corpse was finally allowed rest when it flopped to the ground into a grave of grass and leaves, the cloak mercifully masking the twisted neck and inhumanly bent back.

Alarm rang in the eyes of the remaining sorcerer. The smug smile that had previously occuposed his lips was stripped away when he realized his superiority was a lie, for him and his opponent were now on equal footing. Magic played for both teams, and the real battle would now begin. But by the time he released his vice grip on Arthur and recovered from the surprise, Merlin had already locked his golden gaze upon him and was letting more words roll off his tongue.

"_Hleap on bæc_!" he hissed. It wasn't sounded as a soft quiet murmur like he usually did in order to mask the use of his magic. The words were angry, desperate, consumed by power as he spat them out. The second sorcerer was thrown off his feet in a simple but effective invisible blow that forced him away from Arthur. Merlin immediately seized the moment and scrambled onto his feet, successfully this time. Magic ran thick in his veins and fueled his stamina. Hazy with power and blind with the goal of ensuring Arthur's safety, he rid his mind of all hesitation and allowed raw instinct to take over. Just as quickly as Merlin had rose, the sorcerer quickly followed suite and sprang up onto his feet. Two could play at this game, and it would be undoubtedly the most violent, terrifying, and dangerous game to be played.

He abandoned his sights on Arthur and launched himself toward his new opponent. One arm poked out of his cloak and pointed accusingly at Merlin.

"_Forbærne yfel_!" The opponent snapped. As the magic went his way, all the logical coherent thoughts were flushed out of Merlin's mind. He forgot his words, his promise, his oath. Instead, blind instinct for survival and the protection of Arthur dictated his every move. His lips moved on their own will and his hands gestured at their own leisure. This wasn't an ordinary fight; it was a battle between sorcerers. It was a fight to the death with magic as the only weapon. He would fight. He would win. He would protect Arthur. _No matter what the cost._ And so he did.

Flames were conjured by his hooded opponent and soon flaring red caged Merlin in a ring of fire. Clouds of gray bellowed up from the rapidly burning leaves and greens and threatened to nip and snap at his flesh next, but he would not allow it.

"_Lyft sy þe in__bǽlwylm__ac forhienan__se wiðere__!"_ The command whipped up a furious gust of wind that twisted and twirled in the air. It sucked in bits and pieces of dirt and leaves and even the flames as it crawled along the forest floor. But its slow movement prompted the hooded man to chance another strike.

"_Hleap on bæc_**!**" The tornado of flames and leaves was vanquished when Merlin felt himself being blown violently onto the ground again. His mind raced as his lungs labored for the breath that had been knocked out of his body. He had to live. He had to protect Arthur. His fingers clawed the dirt and the earth tore into his already damaged flesh when he forced himself to spring back up into the battle. Eyes glowed gold. Words of the old religion were spilled. Magic filled the air. Thoughts had long since disappeared from Merlin's mind. Everything that had once occupied the space up in his head boiled down to one lone thought. _Protect Arthur_. The words rang like a bell over and over again in his ears. He heard them as he saw his enemy bounding toward him, sword in hand. He heard them as the man raised the weapon, ready to make the killing blow. He heard them as the steel dropped, coming closer and closer to his death.

The sound ceased when Merlin's eyed flashed a final dazzling gold, even as his lips remained locked in a firm line, but the old religion had heard his silent plea and sent Arthur's discarded sword plunging into the back of the hooded sorcerer. He was slain. Red stained the forest floor when the dead sorcerer fell. He landed inches away from Merlin's feet with a brilliant sword impaled in his back. Silence finally reclaimed the forest.

Harsh quivering breathes left his lungs. When the tingling sensation of magic filtered out of his body, soreness overcame his exhausted limbs. Thought began to slowly reenter the hollowness of his mind and finally movement began to return to his body. He stumbled up to a stand upon shaky legs. The remains of crumpled leaves nested themselves in his mess of black hair and an utterly expressionless look prevented him from even expressing the exhilaration that he had been feeling. All he could feel and think was that it was over. But it wasn't.

A light crunch of dead leaves and branches made Merlin whip his head up, only to catch the devastated gaze of Arthur. The Prince stood several lengths away from him, evidently released from the binds of the earth when the caster of the magic had died. Now it was Merlin's turn to forget that his company was present. Blinded by his one will, he had set aside the consequences that he knew would come from his actions. And now they were coming.

At first Arthur did nothing. He said nothing either. He merely stared at his manservant with eyes that were soaked in a twisted emotion that could not be described coherently. And then he broke. All the guilt that had been eating at his heart burned away in a dark inferno. He charged at Merlin with the crazed eyes of a madman, reeking of an endless pot of boiling rage. Rage was not a sufficient term. The blue veins on his forehead threatened to explode and bulged until one could almost see the flow of his blood. Beads of sweat pooled and mingled with the redness of his flesh, flushed by fury and soiled by the emotion. He came upon Merlin as if the boy was his enemy, like the two dead sorcerers who had tried to murder him. He caught him by the red neckerchief and blue collar and gripped the cloth so tight that it became difficult for air to pass down into Merlin's lungs. He was nearly lifted off the ground as Arthur threw the full force of his entirse fist onto Merlin's collar, sending him crashing into a tree behind him. He held him there by the neck, fist bumping up against his chin and with his own face inches away from Merlin's. He knew it must be terribly uncomfortable—painful even. He was cutting off the boy's airway and had practically punched the delicate region of his throat and collar bone. Not only that, but he had sent his back straight into a tree, and not even then he had release him, but instead he continued to put agonizing pressure onto Merlin's frail body. Merlin made not a single sound. Merlin made not one gesture of resistance. This made anger manipulate Arthur's hands again.

He didn't stare into Merlin's face for long. As a puppet of his emotions, he released his grip on him just long enough to grab him by the shoulder, whirl him around, and then smash him right back into the tree. Merlin's chest met the roughness of the bark and was surely bruised by the violent impact. Now Arthur glared into his back. He pressed Merlin as if he threatened to squeeze him straight through the tree and held him locked firmly in place by the back of his neck. His powerful hands easily wrapped around the back of Merlin's little pale life line. Just as violently as he had smashed him, he yanked up the boys tattered blue tunic and snatched hold of the band of his trousers. Here, in the forest, right now, he would.

He would.

He would.

He wouldn't.

_Couldn't_.

He wasn't angry—he was sad. He was sad, he was furious, he was confused, he was terrified. He was feeling every terrorizing emotion possible and it took every shred of his sanity to keep from throwing himself onto the ground and curling up into a defensive ball to wail like a wounded beast. But not even every shred of his sanity was enough to prevent every aspect of that scene. He released his grip on Merlin just as violently as he had first attained it and threw the boy to the ground. Even if he hadn't thrown him, he would have fallen, for he sank to the ground in a mess of clothes and limbs. He gasped and wheezed and choked up a storm as his lungs worked desperately to suck in the air that he needed to survive. He laid shriveled and twisted upon the ground, and that was the one thing that Arthur was grateful for, that Merlin would not be able to see the wrangled expression that was on his face.

He could not describe the hurt that resonated through his being, and he could only begin to imagine what agonized expression he might be wearing. Like a crazed animal he clawed and ripped at his golden locks like his life depended on it and let out rasping frustrated gasps since he at least had the self control to withhold an all-out wail. It held him back from kicking up a storm of thrashing and punching and screaming and crying, and reduced all those actions down to furious shaking and sharp choked breathes. Tears still threatened to spill, but he allowed only a tiny drop to form in the corner of his eyes as they prickled with frustration. He didn't know what to do, but he couldn't do this anymore.

He couldn't bring himself to violate Merlin, not again, not here, not _anywhere_. Something inside him screamed that actually he did want to, that doing so would ease the weights that were being stacked up mercilessly upon his shoulders, but oh god he knew that it wouldn't. Merlin had promised. He had _promised_! And this was what his promise amounted to—a magical duel. _A duel that saved his life_. More confusion was thrown into his mix of emotions. Merlin had just saved his pathetic life, his life that was hardly worth saving at his point. He was his manservant. He was a sorcerer. He was a criminal. He was a hero. He was everything except for Merlin.

Merlin was dead. Arthur had killed Merlin the moment he had rejected his magic, the moment he had first violated him, the moment he took away from him everything that made him who he was. Now all that was left was a ruined empty shell, a pointless shadow of the great man that he used to be, a shadow of the best friend that Arthur had ever had. And he was the only one responsible for his demise.

The sunken look of Merlin's eyes had told him this. When he had locked eyes with Merlin, it wasn't Merlin's blue eyes that he had looked into. They were hollow, white, and empty. He had given up. There was no resistance. In fact, no matter how disgusting it was to admit, it was almost as if Merlin had submitted willingly. It was as if he had slapped on his own punishment, submitted to it, and offered himself right up to Arthur to receive it. Because he knew that that was what was waiting for him. There was no point to struggle anymore. That wasn't the Merlin he knew. The Merlin he knew would fight until the very bitter end. He would scream and thrash and kick and flail against his enemy even if defeat was eminent. But for this Merlin there would be no escape. There was no hope. There was nothing left.

Merlin was dead, and Arthur had killed him.

Merlin laid on the ground, his breathing becoming slightly more regular yet he still refused to stir. Arthur stood beside him having finally reverted back into a silent motionless state, and turned away so he could not see his broken form, for he too was broken. He had killed two men when he had committed his sin, and now he would pay the price for both.

* * *

**Another A/N:** Sorry for the long wait! I've been on vacation for the past few weeks and haven't had access to a computer so I wasn't able to write. I just got back a week ago and squeezed this out, so I apologise if it's a little lacking or confusing. Anyway, I hope it's enjoyable.


	7. Chapter 7: Prince and Manservant

**A/N:** This is kind of a boring chapter, sorry;

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**Chapter 7: Prince and Manservant**

"…And what of the other knights?"

"I afraid I don't know," Arthur admitted. He looked up to meet the stern gaze of his father who had obviously been expecting an easy victory and the triumphant return of his son along with their full score of knights. What he got, however, was one defeated knight and his battered manservant, and no one else. Arthur stood before him with his hands pressed behind his back and with a tired, but otherwise blank, expression on his face. His useless manservant who had somehow survived stood off to one side as he usually did, and shared the solemn look that was well spread throughout the room.

Uther stirred uncomfortably in his throne, although it wasn't the plush lavish throne that was the cause of his discomfort. He shuffled around to nest himself into a more comfy position and settled back into the seat, putting one elbow on the armrest and then resting his chin gently upon his knuckles. His traditional thinking posture accompanied with the obvious displeasure displayed on his face was an intimidating sight that could make any man in his court cower, however Arthur stood his ground firm and without fear. He did, however, stand in shame.

"I see," was the only response he received from his father when he finally turned his gaze away from his son. Arthur held his gaze. He had failed. It wasn't a small loss either; he had failed and lost numerous knights in the process. At first he had been optimistic on his way back to Camelot since he truly needed something to be hopeful for. He hadn't found any bodies, so he assumed that the scattered knights would be awaiting him within the safety of the castle walls. Upon arrival, he found that none had returned. Only he and Merlin passed through the gates in mournful silence. They were either dead or suffered a fate nearly just as bad, capture. So now he stood in the dominating presence of his father, feeling smaller than he had ever felt in his life. But he was determined to make it right. His father would be enraged by the loss and would no doubt send a fresh army out with Arthur in the lead to squish the threat of magic. Then he would regain his pride, crush the insecurity about magic that hindered him, and feel at ease for the first time in months. Unfortunately, it would not work out like that.

"We were caught off guard this time, but next time I can promise you that Altair will be brought to justice," he dared to suggest as a ting of confidence raised in his voice to exemplify his words. Uther did not share that confidence.

"There won't be a next time," he uttered in a hushed tone. Confusion quickly revealed itself on Arthur's face.

"Father? What do you—"

"You will return to your chambers and _I_ will handle this matter." He had cast his gaze aside for quite some time now, thinking and musing and contemplating this matter like a true wise king. He had finally found his decision and when he did, leveled his hard gaze back on Arthur's aghast look.

"But Father I—"

"Arthur I _forbid_ that you further involve yourself with this," he suddenly boomed, immediately silencing Arthur and zapping every wave of sound from the room. "Altair has proven themselves to be too dangerous a force to take lightly. An army will be gathered to handle them." And that was final. The fearsome King Uther spoke with a conviction so similar to Markab's that Arthur came too close to twisting his expression into a disgusted scowl. He, like Markab, knew exactly what he was doing. He was barring Arthur from what he needed most; reassurance in his beliefs, his skills, his _life_. But he very well knew that tone. Uther's cold demeaning gaze dwarfed the remaining pride that glistened behind Arthur's eyes. That last spark was put out. There would be no changing his decision, and he knew this. But that didn't mean he would like it.

Rage and frustration burned in his chest. At first he shot several helpless looks around the throne room and was met by only the downcast eyes of the pathetically useless court members. No, he wouldn't just stand and take this like they did. On any ordinary day he would. He would properly acknowledge the command from his King and excuse himself politely no matter how conflicted he felt. But today was no ordinary day. He needed to take down Markab. He needed to destroy Altair.

So without even acknowledging his father or saying another word, Arthur whipped around and charged straight for the door. His mail clinked and clattered against the bent plates of his armor as he clunked out of the throne room. He burst out the double doors, pushed past the two poor guards despite their futile attempts to be polite, and wasn't even satisfied when he heard the wooden structures thunder shut behind him. All he felt was anger, frustration, and disappointment.

Never before in his life had he felt so powerless. It seemed like fate wanted to remind him that he was, over and over again, repeatedly and without stop. He was powerless when Markab defeated him. He was powerless when his father ordered him. He was powerless when Merlin used magic to win a battle that Arthur himself had no chance at winning. _Merlin_. He was powerless when it came to Merlin as well. Merlin was the entire reason behind his strange uncontrollable rage and unexplainable attachment to the destruction of Altair. There _was _one person who could make him feel even smaller than Uther could, and that was Merlin. Not even his father could make him feel as powerless as Merlin could. He had felt triumphant and superior when he forced the promise out of the boy, but that sensation had been immediately crushed the second the words of the old religion sided with him once again. And when he had used that magic, it finally dawned on Arthur that no matter what denial blinded him to and no matter what he tried to delude himself with, he was powerless. He couldn't change what Merlin was and couldn't get his one and only manservant back. He couldn't truly rid Merlin of his magic and he couldn't bring himself to sentence him to death either. He couldn't even convince himself to take a firm stand on the matter. So by god he needed, something, _anything_ that could restore his self-worth. He had to feel needed again. He had to feel in power, he had to feel useful, he had to feel that he knew what he was doing when really he didn't know what the hell was happening to him. He couldn't even control his own emotions, couldn't decide whether to hate magic or to accept it. Nothing was in his power. Everything was out of his reach and so damn far away. And just when he thought he could revive some of the worth in himself by finishing his fight with Altair, Uther stripped that away from him too. Now he was left with nothing—nothing but an empty shell to reside in while the rest of the world took control of his life that he couldn't.

As he wallowed in his storm of suffering, he had failed to notice Merlin, or what was left of Merlin, trailing meekly behind him. As soon as Arthur had burst out of the throne room, the boy had been fast at his heels and had to pick up a trot in order to keep up with Arthur's furious pace. Despite the turmoil that his body had been subjected too, he appeared to be otherwise fine. No physical damage done could fail to be repaired one way or another. His muddy jacket and blue tunic that was speckled with patches of dirt obscured the bruises that surely dotted his back. The neckerchief masked dark patches of bruising that was just beginning to painfully emerge around his neck. As he and Arthur had immediately gone to report to the King, he hadn't been given the luxury of weeding out the little chips and flakes of leaves from his raven black strands or even wash away the smudges of dirt that soiled his white flesh, but those things were the least of his worries.

He was terrified. The logic that had barely kept his ruined mind intact had been shattered into thousands of irreplaceable little pieces. Arthur would continue to have his way with Merlin. Merlin would handle it without complaint. The status quo would remain intact. It was a very delicate balance, he had reasoned, but broken and beaten down, he had accepted it. He had accepted that the status quo must be kept intact in order to maintain what was left of their tattered relationship. It was would at least preserve the normalcy of their other role as Prince and manservant. Yes. It was the only thing he could do. He would give in entirely to Arthur. He would nod his head and smile or seal his lips and keep from screaming, if that was what his Prince desired, and if that was what was necessary to maintain the delicate balance that they shared. And so that was what he had done. Was that not what Arthur wanted? Because now it seemed that even when Merlin surrendered himself entirely in body and soul, he was still not yet satisfied. Arthur hadn't reaped punishment against Merlin for his treachery in the woods, and this was somehow even more frightening than if he had. What if he was done with him? What if Arthur was done with Merlin and would now just turn him over to Uther to have his head chopped off or his body burned to oblivion? Fresh terror seized him.

_What did he want?_ Nothing Merlin did was right. Everything he did was wrong. He just wanted to know what to do so he could just do it and repair what was left of their brittle tattered relationship. Over and over again he asked himself the simple but alluding question. As he sped down the long corridors of Camelot, he raked his fingers through his thickness of hair both to brush out the knots of leaves as well as to expel the confusion that was beginning to well inside of him. The light brushing turned into violent clawing as he scratched his scalp raw and thoroughly eliminated dirt and leaves and probably a good few strands of hair as well, but still he could not come up with an answer. All he wanted was to know. That's all he wanted, but that's all that he would not get.

He suddenly jerked to a stop when he found himself just one step short of Arthur's chambers. While he had been turning his mind inside out for an answer he had nearly forgotten where his feet were taking him. He had followed out after Arthur's sudden and rude departure and stayed on his heels since, but he must have lost track of his surroundings early on and allowed distance to invade them because Arthur was already nested in his bedchamber while the double doors separated them. He stood dumbly by the heavy wooden frame.

He would do anything for Arthur, right? He sucked in a sharp breath. The answer was yes. He would suffer, he would cry, he would grieve in agony and go through pain, all of it he would do if it was for Arthur.

So it didn't matter what he had to do. There was no point to question what he had to do since when it came down to it, whatever it may be, he would do it. He shook the nervousness out of his system and wiggled his fingers to loosen the tension that had built in them. Soothing breathes brought air to his body and allowed him to flush the confused thoughts from his mind. No more wondering what Arthur wanted, because it didn't matter. He would do it. He laid one hand on the golden door handle. What waited for him behind the heavy wooden doors was his destiny, and he wouldn't keep it waiting.

"Sire?"

What awaited him was not tortuous punishment, but a silently fuming (and already undressed) Arthur. His fit of anger must have shortened his patience since he had taken the liberty to strip out of his armor without waiting for Merlin's assistance. Of course the job wasn't entirely clean. A heap of clothing and a pile of scattered metal plates were scattered in an ugly mess on the ground. Arthur himself stood solemnly by his small window. Only a loose fitting pair of trousers covered him while he was left bare from the waist up. Apparently captivated by the high hanging roundness of the moon, he only spared a tiny glance back toward Merlin before passing off his presence as unimportant and returning his attention to the scenic night. Unfortunately he was not actually enjoying the night; rather he was fuming over his father's declaration.

Merlin took his cue to remain silent and slipped noiselessly into the room. He made quick work of the dirty pile of armor and clothes, folding the clothes and laying out the armor plates. He expected something along the lines of 'I want them polished by tomorrow', but he received no such order. Soon the silence was becoming unnatural. It was the kind of silence that formed when they were out of their precious roles of Prince and manservant. It was the kind of silence that he dreaded to hear. Desperation suddenly grasped Merlin and he flailed to drive their awkward exchange into a more desirable direction.

"I'm sure the King is just trying to protect you," he chimed with a very forced smile. "After all, you are sole heir to the throne." He kept his hands busy drawing down the curtains and smoothing out the sheets of Arthur's bed. Silence was the only answer he got. "…It wasn't your fault; it was an unfair battle," he tried again, this time his voice was involuntarily smaller. Nothing. "Arthur?" When he still received no reply, he finally allowed himself to be torn from his feigned work and snuck a peek up at Arthur. He was still frozen by the window. The clear moonlight bounced off his skin and smothered him in an odd luminous glow. It highlighted every curve, every ridge, every firm muscle that rippled across his broad chest. Merlin would have been smitten by the breathtaking sight if he hadn't also noticed the one flaw on his body.

He had nearly forgotten about it until he saw it. The gash inflicted by their bout with the white beast had reopened during Arthur's skirmish with Altair, and Merlin recalled seeing the deeply stained red on his clothes during the battle. Removed of his attire now, the injury was as clear as daylight, or in this case, moonlight. Crusted dried blood stained his left shoulder and blotched out the shallow by painful looking cut. Gaius' ointment had done wonders to reduce the ugly puffy redness that had previously stained the wound and had it been given just a few more days, he was certain the injury would have been completely eradicated. But of course, Uther had thrown his one and only sole heir to the throne out into danger yet again before it had a chance to heal.

Since his previous statements were obviously repelled, Merlin sped down a different track. He abandoned his feigned cleaning and unnecessary smoothing and went for Arthur's drawer. The wooden mass that was parked at his bedside contained various keys, trinkets, and princely possessions, but Merlin had slipped in the ointment among the mix of things. He retrieved the clear jar that represented his final lifeline back to normalcy with the Prince. The silence that persisted between them was now painful.

"We should treat that now," he murmured, "before it gets infected."

The sentence dropped off into a pathetic meek assertion that was very unpersuasive. Merlin looked up at Arthur, gesturing with the little bottle that he gripped a bit too tightly, and hoped for acknowledgement. To his greatest relief, he received it. But it didn't come as he expected, or wanted.

Arthur finally peeled his gaze away from the imaginary scenery that he seemed to have engrossed himself with through the window. But his gaze was icy, unfocused, and almost accusing when he directed his stare at his manservant. Those weren't the eyes of the Prince. Merlin swallowed hard when blue eyes met blue eyes. He was trapped in them. The azure optics enthralled him into a trap that forced his terrified gaze to keep looking even though he wanted nothing more than to look away and hide from Arthur's scrutinizing stare. But he was still playing the part of the manservant, even if Arthur was no longer playing the part of the Prince. Arthur planted himself on a stool at his bedside, but maneuvered it so that he sat with his front facing the bed at such a close proximity that Merlin would have no choice but to address him from behind.

He didn't want to see Merlin's face.

No, that couldn't be it. He batted away the thought and crowded his mind with so many musings that pertained to tending to Arthur that there wouldn't be any room for anything else. He gathered a small pail of water and a clean rag and dabbed away the crusted blood that tainted Arthur's otherwise impeccable physical form. He cleansed the injury, treated it, rubbed on the lotion-like ointment, but still received not a word from Arthur. By then not even his storm of thoughts could elude him from the truth. As he ran his slim fingers over his Prince's well toned shoulders, kneaded the flesh with a touch as delicate as a butterfly, and savored every inch of skin that he could touch, his mind was occupied with only one thing. Even as Prince and manservant, things would never, ever, be the same again.

"Are you done yet?" Arthur suddenly questioned, turning his head ever so slightly as to take a peek at Merlin over his shoulder. The abruptness interrupted the flow of Merlin's thoughts and made him trip over his words.

"What—no—yes, I am!" he stuttered. He quickly backed away from Arthur and gave him space to rise from the stool and stretch out the soreness that was surely in his injured arm. He said something; that was a good sign, wasn't it? Merlin eyed Arthur with rising nervousness as the Prince approached the pile of armor that now resembled bent plates more so than protective gear. Merlin wasn't the only one who was raging a war inside his mind.

The moment his manservant had entered his room, Arthur had been struggling to construct a suitable course of interaction. He searched for words, expressions, actions, for _everything_, but could find no words that he could formulate, no expressions that he could show, and no actions that he could take. He tried to—he _wanted _to be the Prince again and for Merlin to be his manservant again. It was just a matter of making it happen. Due to his lack of options, he had remained blank in Merlin's presence. He shared few words with him, if any at all, and only gave him stares that were void of expression.

Merlin was a sorcerer. Merlin was his friend. He only wanted the 'friend' part of the package but the 'magic' part came with the deal. It was a set—an inseparable set. If he wanted one part he would have to take the other as well. If he wanted one part to disappear then he would have to make the other disappear too. So, what was is that he feared more—magic or losing Merlin? No, a better question was, what was it that he _wanted_ more—Merlin or the eradication of magic?

The answer for both was, of course, '_Merlin'_. He would face magic dead in the eyeballs if it meant saving Merlin, and he would much rather spend a casual afternoon hunting with his loyal manservant instead of waving around a bloody red sword while slaying sorcerers.

His answer frightened him.

Throbbing pain in his hand suddenly alerted him that even if his mind was lost, his body certainly wasn't. While lost in his daze he had fingered through all the bent armor and shattered chainmail. One hand had come to rest on the dirtied red of his cape and he had curled his fingers around it to tightly that his knuckles burned white and his entire fist quaked from the effort. His fingers dug into the flesh of his palm but the cloth separating nail from skin dulled the pain to a plain throb, which he just now came to notice. He immediately let go.

He knew what his answer meant. Having Merlin would also mean having magic. He grabbed his cape again with without even noticing. Magic. Magic. Magic. The solution to his dilemma was actually quite simple. He could just _accept_ magic. The key word there was '_could'._ His knuckles turned white again as more strength was poured into his tight grip on his cape. Asking him to accept magic was asking him to defy his King, his father, and the entire belief system that had been drilled into his mind since birth. It was asking him to forgive the sorcerers who killed his knights and the witch that murdered his mother. It was asking for something that was almost impossible. The growing pain in his palm registered again, but this time he didn't let go. It was so simple, but oh god is was so _difficult._ He just wanted Merlin. He didn't want the magic. If only he could just _forget_ about the magic so that when he looked at Merlin, he would just see his manservant. Yes, that would be great. It would be wonderful to just take a deep breath, close his eyes, and then forget.

So then he would.

"Prepare my armor and have it ready by tomorrow before dawn," he blurted. Merlin, who had been lingering behind him in nervous silence, was hit by the suddenness and gave a jolt when the words reached him. His recovery was quick, though, and he hurried to cast the gathered supplies aside and toss the ointment back into the drawer to prepare to carry out the order, but immediately halted his actions mid way when he digested what Arthur was demanding. With one hand still resting on a brass knob of the drawer, Merlin turned cautiously toward Arthur.

"…Why? You're supposed to rest tomorrow."

"There's no time for that. Tomorrow we're going after Altair."

"What? Arthur that's—"

He stopped. What did he just hear? What did Arthur just say? He said '_we_'. "You…you want me to go with you?" Merlin had to force the words up and out of his throat with what was left of his strength since if he didn't, they would have refused to sound. Even so the sentence was quiet, full of disbelief, and ultimately nearly inaudible. Actually, despite the dangers that obviously came with such a plan, Merlin wasn't in the slightest against it. Oh how many times already had he snuck out of the castle in the dead of night or before the sun rose from a long nights slumber! And how many times had he done so with Arthur, or better yet, under Arthur's direct order. This wasn't something that he would ask just anyone to do. This was something that he would only ever ask of his one and only manservant. He was telling Merlin to be his manservant again.

At first Merlin brightened. Some color returned to his cheeks and his lips almost curled up into an enthusiastic smile. But again, when his mind finally processed the order, he stopped. The almost-smile slipped into a disapproving and concerned frown. There was no way two people could obliterate an entire squad of sorcerers. Even with Merlin's magic (which was absolutely not an option anyway), chances of victory were slim and chances of their own death's were high—too high for Merlin to agree to Arthur's plan.

"No, Arthur, that's impossible!" he protested, turning around so that his back was to the drawer. From his position he could not see (for Arthur had his back turned to him), but he would have eaten his words if he had seen the displeasure that immediately shot across his face. Arthur was now squeezing his cape impossibly tight. His fist quaked and the quivering movement was spreading up his arm and threatened to spread even further. No, that's not the answer that he wanted. Merlin had to say the right answer. He _had_ to.

"No it's not. We're going," he breathed. The words came out chocked and slow as Arthur struggled to keep the quiver out of his voice. He fought to control himself, to keep himself in check, and he managed to concentrate his mental chaos into violent shaking that had spread throughout his entire body now. What was the damn kid waiting for? Hurry up and answer. Just give the right answer and everything will be ok again. Just say…just say…

"Arthur, it's too dangerous! If you're really worried about Altair, I'll go tomorrow, but you have to stay here and res—"

He broke. With one violent thrash, Arthur swept the table top clean. Armor, clothing, and fruit smashed onto cold hard stone and thundered as the impact registered. He had spared only a single object, his sword. With another wild and completely ungraceful motion, he ripped the sword from its sheath, not caring for appearances, technique, or whatever got in his way. Drunken with rage he couldn't care less about how he did things as long as he made them happen. He just needed the sword out of the sheath and it damn well would be taken out. He needed Merlin to say one simple word and he swore to god, he would make him say it.

"Do you want to _die_?" He had tried to keep his voice hushed but resistance was futile. He roared like an angered beast and spat the words out at Merlin. Sword in hand, he thrust the blade dangerously at the boy's chest, catching him by utter surprise and thus forcing him to back up painfully into the drawer. Merlin crashed into the wooden mass and felt the bumps of the various knobs bruise his back. His next breath caught in his throat and he chocked on it, unable to expel it and unable to suck in a new breath. The tip of the blade was quivering.

"Is that it? is that what you want? _to die_?" Not only was his hand shaking, but now so was his voice. It wasn't just out of rage though, but also out of agony. Going alone to take on Altair? that was suicidal! They always went together, as a team, as a pair, as trusted allies! He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted the coppery tang of blood and tightened his grip on his sword to quell the shaking, but it only produced the opposite effect. He stood there with his sword jabbed at Merlin, sucking in quick raspy breathes, and trying harder than ever before in his life to keep the tears that were threatening to spill from doing so. Why? He just wanted to hear one word come out of Merlin's mouth. So why didn't Merlin say it? The rejection sent a blow to his heart, like if he truly had just been heartbroken by the boy's refusal. If he gave the right answer, then he could be his manservant again, Arthur would see only that part of him, and he could finally, blissfully, forget about the other part, the _magic_. So why? Why?

Why hadn't Merlin just said '_yes_'?

"My manservant would—" he paused to take in another shaky breath, "—my manservant would come with me because he knows there's no changing my mind." After a long pause, his rage quelled and his shaking abated, and he forced out one last pained sentence. "…And you are my manservant, aren't you?"

Some of the anger in his tone dissolved, and so did some of the rage that burned behind his eyes. The fury began to burn away to reveal pained, horrible, sadness. His eyes were sad. He appeared like a pathetic wounded animal as he looked on at Merlin, eyes silently pleading. His tone had taken a turn far away from anger and had melted into something that was dangerously near begging. He _was_ begging. He was begging, pleading, and desperately urging Merlin to give him the response that he wanted—that he _needed_. He needed Merlin to go with him. He needed to forget about the magic. He needed Merlin to be his manservant again.

Pressed against the drawer, Merlin's chocked breathes abated to an eerie calmness. Despite having the sword inches away from claiming his life, he felt oddly relaxed. It was shock, probably. Empty eyes stared at Arthur. Arthur wanted his manservant back, but he didn't want all of him back. No strings attached; no magic. He wanted a different Merlin, not the Merlin that he really was. The hole in his heart widened. This was how it would be, then. In cold silence, he nodded stiffly.

"…I'll have your armor ready before dawn," he finally answered. The words were weak and barely above a whisper, but that was all he could muster. Another moment of chilling silence passed before the words registered to Arthur. He couldn't do it any longer—he couldn't point his sword at Merlin for a second longer. A sudden jolt of self loathing shot through his body which prompted him to cast away the sword as if it had caught fire. It raised a cacophony of clattering when it hit the ground. Another few moments of painful noiselessness passed. Neither of the two moved. Rather, neither of them knew how to respond now. They were caught in the silence, trapped by it, until Merlin dared to make the first move. With a dark cloud of grief hanging over him, he ducked his gaze away from Arthur and scrambled to gather the scattered pieces of his armor that had been knocked off the table. He had to trot across the room to reach some of the furthest flying pieces and crouch down to snatch the ones that had fallen into the most inconvenient of locations, but no matter where he was, he could not bring himself to even look in Arthur's direction. With an armful of armor, he plowed straight for the door, failed to even excuse himself or wish the Prince a good night, and left. The heavy double doors thundered shut behind him, leaving a still unmoved Arthur alone.

Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen, and then finally it was the cold of the night against his bare skin that compelled him to move. He crept to the comfort of his bed that would do nothing to comfort him that night and drew the silky covers up to his waist as was his usual routine. That night, he was suddenly not satisfied with that set up. He drew up the covers higher, and higher, and higher until they went well over his head so that he was completely enveloped in the softness. He hid himself beneath the covers so no one could see him. He hid himself from the world.

Merlin was true to his word. Before the sun could creep up over the mountains and before the roosters could begin to croak, Arthur was roused from his painfully light sleep by the sound of metal clattering against metal. On an ordinary day he would have slept straight through the insignificant noises, but today, not only had he spent most of the night tossing and turning, but when he finally managed to close his eyes he found himself awakened by every single sound that reached his ears. Following the metallic clanging were light footsteps, the delicate turning of a doorknob, and then the light slam of the double doors. Arthur flew out of the warmth of his covers. His eyes darted frantically around the room searching for a trace of Merlin, but found nothing except for the neatly placed pile of armor which sat upon his table top. He walked over to it. The old warped plates had been swapped out for shiny new pieces.

Part of him was glad he wouldn't have to face Merlin, not yet. He'd probably slipped out immediately to prepare the horses. That was a task that would take much longer to do in silence, so often enough Merlin would first deposit Arthur's attire, wake him, and then go straight to the horses. It was one of the few times Arthur had to dress himself, for time was precious in such situations and every second was used wisely. But this morning, Merlin left out the 'waking Arthur' part. After their spat the previous night, he didn't get the chance to meet Merlin's deep blue eyes again since he had clearly avoided making eye contact. Was he avoiding him again? No no no, that couldn't be. He must have known that Arthur was already awake. Yes, that must have been it. But again, it was partially to his advantage that he had been spared a meeting, for he hadn't yet worked out how he was to play his role as the Prince. He had desperately tried to push Merlin back into his role as his manservant, but now that it was happening he couldn't find it in him to play the part of the Prince. How should he act? How did he _usually_ act? The time when he and Merlin really were manservant and Prince and not just two people engaging in an elaborate act was now so far away that Arthur could no longer recall. He couldn't recall the normalcy that had been between them or the sensation that he had experienced when that normalcy was still in place. What to say and what to do were all questions that he could no longer answer. He had known this before but refused to truly acknowledge it until now; it really wouldn't be the same relationship that he once knew.

The two horses clopped in place and huffed out whinnies every now and then, but ultimately they were quiet enough for Merlin to be at ease. He certainly did not want anyone in the castle to notice him, and more than anything he didn't want Arthur to either. He had purposefully evaded the task of waking Arthur, and would avoid doing so until sunlight began to fill the blackness of the morning. Alone in the citadel, Merlin was met by only the darkness that lingered in the cold space. He waited with undying patience for light to consume the dark. If he woke Arthur after the sun was already beginning to rise, he could use it as an excuse for them to not pursue Altair. Somewhere inside him he actually wanted to venture out into the danger with Arthur. He could use the mission to restore some life back into their crippled relationship. But the best he could do was patch up the holes while the cracks will forever remain, and Arthur's life was more important than their relationship. It didn't matter what their relationship was, as long as Arthur was alive. Merlin drilled that thought deep into his mind. Arthur was the most important. He had to live at all costs. It didn't matter what the cost was.

Abruptly, one of the horses gave a noisy snort that threatened to escalate into a full on whinny. Merlin immediately snatched the reins and held them firm while he patted and stroked the strong region of the creature's neck. He cooed and patted and pampered the animal until it submitted to Merlin's charm. He let out a sigh of relief when silence once again filled the air. That silence was quickly shattered.

"Keep it down, Merlin."

Terror seized his heart and he whipped around, but managed to smother the fear enough so that it would not show on his face. He met the tall dark shape of Arthur who was making his way down the stone steps. Even through the dark Merlin could see every perfect feature that adorned his figure. He saw the unruly golden bed head that Arthur hadn't bothered to comb out and the wrinkles in his clothing that he probably didn't know how to smooth out. Merlin swallowed. This wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to wake up when the sun was already up. He was supposed to skip out on this suicidal mission. He was supposed to _live._ Arthur stared at him through the darkness with distraught eyes. He seemed like he was trying to focus on something, but was ultimately failing. Merlin hastily blurted out a response.

"Sorry, can't help it," he attempted to joke by throwing in his trademark side ways grin. Arthur wasn't the only one who was failing. His grin fell short of a grin and turned out to be more of an awkward curl of the lips. He looked more like he was trying to force down a meal that was absolutely terrible. Silence claimed the air again. Again, both were at a loss for words. Arthur opened his mouth to say something, but the words never came out. Merlin raised his hand like he was going to do something, but he never did. The awkward silence persisted until the weak manservant-Prince roles completely fell apart. Merlin was supposed to be the manservant but he wasn't. Arthur was supposed to be the Prince but he wasn't. That sanctuary was gone. Merlin turned awkwardly away from Arthur, who hadn't yet moved from the bottom of the steps. He turned toward the horses and scampered around them, giving the saddles a few strong tugs to make sure they were properly prepared. For once, they were. He leaned his forehead onto the cool leather surface of the saddles side and dangled the reins loosely in his fingers. Arthur had been right the previous night—Merlin knew that there was no changing his mind. If he said they were going to go kill Altair, then they were going to go and _attempt_ to do so. They were going to have to go through with this but one way or another, Arthur had to survive it. No matter what.

Merlin let out a long breath before straightening and tightening his grip on the reins. He turned to face Arthur and held out the strong ropes to him. Today was an improvement from yesterday since he did not avert his eyes, but his stare was hollow, empty, and blank. Arthur took the reins with an equally as blank expression and gave only a nod of acknowledgement.

"Let's go then," he muttered weakly.

"Yeah…" was all Merlin could muster in response. They mounted their horses and darted off down the stone paths of Camelot. As they clopped further and further away from the safety of the castle, the light of the blazing torches grew thinner and thinner and the darkness drew thicker and thicker. The veil of darkness enveloped them and smothered them, eating them up and sucking them into pitch blackness. Into the darkness they went, and from that point on, they could only go deeper and deeper into it.

* * *

**A/N:** Wahhh I hope that wasn't too confusing. I realize that I'm not really good at writing stream of consciousness but I keep trying to anyway so it seems like Arthur's thoughts are all over the place. I was trying to evoke the sensation of his confusion, but now it's just plain confusing. -Fails-. Not only that but I feel like things are moving a bit too slow (or maybe it's just me since I'm the one writing haha), but I'll pick up the pace in the next chapter!

Those things aside, I really appreciate the reviews! Many thanks to those who critique to help me improve, and of course thank you to those who leave wonderful kind comments~. They really modivate me to keep writing this!


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